"LIBRA  RY 

OF  THE 

U N I VERS  ITY 
Of  ILLINOIS 


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■i 


THE 


STONES  OF  VENICE. 

% 

VOLUME  THE  THIED. 

fall. 


By  JOHH  EUSKIH, 

AUTHOR  OF  “the  SEVEN  LAMPS  OP  ARCHITECTURE,”  “MODERN  PAINTERS,”  ETC.,  ETO. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NEW  YORK 

piet*rtU  antf 

74  FIFTH  AVENUE 


# 


CONTENTS, 


17^ 

/rf  ■ 


THIRD,  OR  RENAISSANCE,  PERIOD. 

CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

Early  Renaissance,  ........  1 

( 

j CHAPTER  II. 

^ Roman  Renaissance,  .......  3S 

I 

I CHAPTER  III. 

! Grotesque  Renaissance,  .......  113 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Conclusion,  ........  166 

APPENDIX. 

1.  Architect  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  .....  199 

2.  Theology  of  Spenser,  ...  ...  205 

3.  Austrian  Government  in  Italy,  .....  209 

4.  Date  of  the  Palaces  of  the  Byzantine  Renaissance,  . . 211 

5.  Renaissance  Side  of  Ducal  Palace,  .....  212 

0.  Character  of  the  Doge  Michele  Morosini,  . . . 213 

7.  ^lodern  Education,  .......  214 

% a 


IV 


CONTEOTS. 


PAGE 

8.  Early  Venetian  Marriages,  .....  222 

9.  Character  of  the  Venetian  Aristocracy,  . . . . . 223 

10.  Final  Appendix,  .......  224 

INDICES. 

I.  Personal  Index,  ......  263 

II.  Local  Index,  . ‘ . . . . , . 268 

III.  Topical  Index,  . o . , . , . 271 

IV.  Venetian  Index,  - - o - . 287 


LIST  OF  PLATES. 


iPlate  1. 

j 

I 3. 

I 4. 

1 5. 

I 

i “ 6- 

i “ 7. 

i 

S 8. 

f 

! 9. 

j “ 10. 
11. 
12. 


Temperance  and  Intemperance  in  Ornament, 
Gothic  Capitals,  ...» 
Noble  and  Ignoble  Grotesque, 

Mosaic  of  Olive  Tree  and  Flowers, 

Byzantine  Bases,  .... 

Byzantine  Jambs, 

Gothic  Jambs,  .... 

Byzantine  Archivolts, 

Gothic  Archivolts,  . . • , 

Cornices,  . . • ^ 

Tracery  Bars,  .... 

Capitals  of  T’ondaco  de  Turchi,  « 


Facing  Page 
6 
8 

. 125 

179 
. 225 

229 
. 230 

244 
. 245 

248 
. 252 

304 


THE 


STOISTES  OF  VENICE. 


THIRD,  OR  RENAISSMCE,  PERIOD. 




CHAPTER  I. 

EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 

§ I.  I TRUST  that  tlie  reader  lias  been  enabled,  by  the  pre- 
I ceding  chapters,  to  form  some  conception  of  the  magnificence 
I of  the  streets  of  Venice  during  the  course  of  the  thirteenth 
I and  fourteenth  centuries.  Yet  by  all  this  magnificence  she 
I was  not  supremely  distinguished  above  the  other  cities  of  the 
middle  ages.  Her  early  edifices  have  been  preserved  to  our 
times  by  the  circuit  of  her  waves  ; while  continual  recurrences 
of  ruin  have  defaced  the  glo\y  of  her  sister  cities.  But  such 
fragments  as  are  still  left  in  their  lonely  squares,  and  in  the 
corners  of  their  streets,  so  far  from  being  inferior  to  the  build- 
ings of  Venice,  are  even  more  rich,  more  finished,  more  ad- 
mirable in  invention,  more  exuberant  in  beauty.  And  al- 
though, in  the  North  of  Europe,  civilization  was  less  advanced, 
and  the  knowledge  of  the  arts  was  more  confined  to  the  ecclesi- 
astical orders,  so  that,  for  domestic  architecture,  the  period  of 
perfection  must  be  there  placed  much  later  than  in  Italy,  and 
considered  as  extending  to  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury ; yet,  as  each  city  reached  a certain  point  in  civilization, 
its  streets  became  decorated  with  the  same  magnificence,  varied 


2 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


only  in  style  according  to  the  materials  at  hand,  and  temjier 
of  the  people.  And  I am  not  aware  of  any  town  of  wealth 
and  importance  in  the  middle  ages,  in  which  some  proof  does 
not  exist,  that,  at  its  period  of  greatest  energy  and  prosperity, 
its  streets  were  inwrought  with  rich  sculpture,  and  even 
(though  in  this,  as  before  noticed,  Venice  always  stood 
supreme)  glowing  with  color  and  with  gold.  Now,  there- 
fore, let  the  reader, — forming  for  himself  as  vivid  and  real  a 
conception  as  he  is  able,  either  of  a group  of  Venetian  palaces 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  or,  if  he  likes  better,  of  one  of  the 
more  fantastic  but  even  richer  street  scenes  of  Rouen,  Ant- 
werp, Cologne,  or  Nuremberg,  and  keeping  this  gorgeous 
image  before  him, — go  out  into  any  thoroughfare,  representa- 
tive, in  a general  and  characteristic  way,  of  the  feeling  for 
domestic  architecture  in  modern  times ; let  him,  for  instance, 
if  in  London,  walk  once  up  and  down  Harley  Street,  or  Baker 
Street,  or  Gower  Street ; and  then,  looking  upon  this  picture 
and  on  this,  set  himself  to  consider  (for  this  is  to  be  the  sub- 
ject of  our  following  and  final  inquiry)  what  have  been  the 
causes  which  have  induced  so  vast  a change  in  the  European 
mind. 

§ II.  Renaissance  architecture  is  the  school  which  has  con- 
ducted men’s  inventive  and  constructive  faculties  from  the 
Grand  Canal  to  Gower  Street;  from  the  marble  shaft,  and  the 
lancet  arch,  and  the  wreathed  leafage,  and  the  glowing  and 
melting  harmony  of  gold  and  azure,  to  the  square  cavity  in 
the  brick  wall.  We  have  now  to  consider  the  causes  and  the 
steps  of  this  change ; and,  as  we  endeavored  above  to  investi- 
gate the  nature  of  Gothic,  here  to  investigate  also  the  nature 
of  Renaissance. 

§ III.  Although  Renaissance  architecture  assumes  very  dif- 
ferent forms  among  different  nations,  it  may  be  conveniently 
referred  to  three  heads  : — Early  Renaissance,  consisting  of  the 
first  corruptions  introduced  into  the  Gothic  schools : Central 
or  Roman  Renaissance,  which  is  the  perfectly  formed  style : 
and  Grotesque  Renaissance,  which  is  the  corruption  of  the 
Renaissance  itself. 


I.  EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


3 


^ IV.  ill  orclGr  to  do  full  jiisticG  to  tlic  advGrsG  crusg, 

I we  will  cousidGi*  the  abstract  nature  of  the  school  with  refcr- 
lence  only  to  its  best  or  central  examples.  The  forms  of  build- 
ing which  must  be  classed  generally  under  the  term  early 
Renaissance  are,  in  many  cases,  only  the  extravagances  and 
corruptions  of  the  languid  Gothic,  for  whose  errors  the  classi- 
cal principle  is  in  no  wise  answerable.  It  was  stated  in  the 
I second  chapter  of  the  ''  Seven  Lamps,”  that,  unless  luxury  had 
enervated  and  subtlety  falsified  the  Gothic  forms,  Roman 
traditions  could  not  have  prevailed  against  them;  and,  al- 
though these  enervated  and  false  conditions  are  almost  in- 
i stantly  colored  by  the  classical  influence,  it  would  be  utterly 
unfair  to  lay  to  the  charge  of  that  influence  the  first  debase- 
i ment  of  the  earlier  schools,  which  had  lost  the  strength  of 
j their  system  before  they  could  be  struck  by  the  plague. 

§ V.  The  manner,  however,  of  the  debasement  of  all 
schools  of  art,  so  far  as  it  is  natural,  is  in  all  ages  the  same ; 
luxuriance  of  ornament,  refinement  of  execution,  and  idle  sub- 
tleties of  fancy,  taking  the  place  of  true  thought  and  firm 
handling  *.  and  I do  not  intend  to  delay  the  reader  long  by  the 
’ Gothic  sick-bed,  for  our  task  is  not  so  much  to  watch  the  wast- 
ing of  fever  in  the  features  of  the  expiring  king,  as  to  tiace 
S the  character  of  that  Hazael  who  dipped  the  cloth  in  water, 

: and  laid  it  upon  his  face.  Nevertheless,  it  is  necessary  to  the 
; completeness  of  our  view  of  the  architecture  of  Yenice,  as 
' well  as  to  our  understanding  of  the  manner  in  which  the  Cen- 
[ tral  Renaissance  obtained  its  universal  dominion,  that  we 
glance  briefly  at  the  principal  forms  into  which  Venetian 
I Gothic  first  declined.  They  are  two  in  number : one  the  cor- 
ruption of  the  Gothic  itself ; the  other  a partial  return  to  By- 
zantine forms;  for  the  Venetian  mind  having  caiiied  the 
! Gothic  to  a point  at  which  it  was  dissatisfied,  tried  to  retiace 
i its  steps,  fell  back  first  upon  Byzantine  types,  and  Birough  them 
passed  to  the  first  Roman.  But  in  thus  retracing  its  steps, 

I it  does  not  recover  its  own  lost  energy.  It  revisits  the  places 
f through  which  it  had  passed  in  the  morning  light,  but  it  is  now 
! with  wearied  limbs,  and  under  the  gloomy  shadows  of  evening. 


4 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


§ VI.  It  has  just  been  said  that^he  two  principal  causes  o^ 
natural  decline  in  any  school,  are  over-luxuriance  aud  over- 
refinement. The  corrupt  Gothic  of  Venice  furnishes  us  with 
a curious  instance  of  the  one,  and  the  corrupt  Byzantine  of 
the  other.  We  shall  examine  them  in  succession. 

Now,  observe,  first,  I do  not  mean  by  luxuriance  of  orna- 
ment, quantity  of  ornament.  In  the  best  Gothic  in  the  world 
there  is  hardly  an  inch  of  stone  left  unsculptured.  But  I mean 
that  character  of  extravagance  in  the  ornament  itself  ^^diich 
shows  that  it  was  addressed  to  jaded  faculties  ; a violence  and 
coarseness  in  curvature,  a depth  of  shadow,  a lusciousness  in 
arrangement  of  line,  evidently  arising  out  of  an  incapability  of 
feeling  the  true  beauty  of  chaste  form  and  restrained  power. 
I do  not  know  any  character  of  design  which  may  be  more 
easily  recognized  at  a glance  than  this  over-lusciousness ; and 
yet  it  seems  to  me  that  at  the  present  day  there  is  nothing  so 
little  understood  as  the  essential  difference  between  chasteness 
and  extravagance,  whether  in  color,  shade,  or  lines.  We  speak 
loosely  and  inaccurately  of  ^^overcharged’’  ornament,  with  an 
obscure  feeling  that  there  is  indeed  something  in  visible  Form 
which  is  correspondent  to  Intemperance  in  moral  habits ; but 
without  any  distinct  detection  of  the  character  which  offends 
us,  far  less  with  any  understanding  of  the  most  important 
lesson  which  there  can  be  no  doubt  was  intended  to  be  con- 
veyed by  the  universality  of  this  ornamental  law. 

§ VII.  In  a word,  then,  the  safeguard  of  highest  beauty,  in 
all  visible  work,  is  exactly  that  which  is  also  the  safeguard  of 
conduct  in  the  soul, — Temperance,  in  the  broadest  sense  ; the 
Temperance  which  we  have  seen  sitting  on  an  equal  throne 
with  Justice  amidst  the  Four  Cardinal  Virtues,  and,  wanting 
which,  there  is  not  any  other  virtue  which  may  not  lead  us 
into  desperate  error.  Now,  observe:  Temperance,  in  the 
nobler  sense,  does  not  mean  a subdued  and  imperfect  energy  ; 
it  does  not  mean  a stopping  short  in  any  good  thing,  as  in 
Love  or  in  Faith  ; but  it  means  the  power  which  governs  the 
most  intense  energy,  and  prevents  its  acting  in  any  way  but 


I.  EAKLY  REKAISSAKCE. 


5 


as  it  ought.  And  with  respect  to  things  in  which  there  may 
be  excess,  it  does  not  mean  imperfect  enjoyment  of  them  ; but 
the  regulation  of  their  quantity,  so  that  the  enjoyment  of  them 
shall  be  greatest.  For  instance,  in  the  matter  we  have  at 
present  in  hand,  temperance  in  color  does  not  mean  imperfect 
or  dull  enjoyment  of  color ; but  it  means  that  government  of 
color  which  shall  bring  the  utmost  possible  enjoyment  out  of 
all  hues.  A bad  colorist  does  not  love  beautiful  color  better 
than  the  best  colorist  does,  nor  half  so  much.  But  he  indulges 
i in  it  to  excess ; he  uses  it  in  large  masses,  and  unsubdued ; 
and  then  it  is  a law  of  Nature,  a law  as  universal  as  that  of 
j gravitation,  that  he  shall  not  be  able  to  enjoy  it  so  much  as  if 
he  had  used  it  in  less  quantity.  His  eye  is  jaded  and  satiated, 

I and  the  blue  and  red  have  life  in  them  no  more.  He  tries  to 
j paint  them  bluer  and  redder,  in  vain : all  the  blue  has  become 
I grey,  and  gets  greyer  the  more  he  adds  to  it ; all  his  crimson 
^ has  become  brown,  and  gets  more  sere  and  autumnal  the  more 
f he  deepens  it.  But  the  great  painter  is  sternly  temperate  in 
I his  work ; he  loves  the  vivid  color  with  all  his  heart ; but  for 
1 a long  time  he  does  not  allow  himself  anything  like  it,  nothing 
i but  sober  browns  and  dull  greys,  and  colors  that  have  no  con- 
i ceivable  beauty  in  them  ; but  these  by  his  government  become 
1 lovely : and  after  bringing  out  of  them  all  the  life  and  power 
'they  possess,  and  enjoying  them  to  the  uttermost, — cautiously, 
J and  as  the  crown  of  the  work,  and  the  consummation  of  its 
j music,  he  permits  the  momentary  crimson  and  azure,  and  the 
I whole  canvas  is  in  a flame. 

( § VIII.  Again,  in  curvature,  which  is  the  cause  of  loveliness 

un  all  form;  the  bad  designer  does  not  enjoy  it  more  than  the 
I great  designer,  but  he  indulges  in  it  till  his  eye  is  satiated,  and 
he  cannot  obtain  enough  of  it  to  touch  his  jaded  feeling  for 
grace.  But  the  great  and  temperate  designer  does  not  allow 
himself  any  violent  curves ; he  works  much  with  lines  in 
which  the  curvature,  though  always  existing,  is  long  before  it 
I is  perceived.  He  dwells  on  all  these  subdued  curvatures  to  the 
f uttermost,  and  opposes  them  vdth  still  severer  lines  to  bring 


THIRlD  PEinOt). 


6 

Ifliem  out  in  fuller  sweetness;  and,  at  last,  he  allows  liiinself  a 
/nonientary  cniwe  of  energy,  and  all  the  work  is,  in  an  instant, 
full  of  life  and  grace. 

The  curves  drawn  in  Plate  YII.  of  the  first  volume,  were  ' 
chosen  entirely  to  show  this  character  of  dignity  and  restraint, 
as  it  appears  in  the  lines  of  nature,  together  with  the  per- 
petual changefulness  of  the  degrees  of  curvature  in  one  and 
the  same  line;  but  although  the  purpose  of  that  plate  was 
carefully  explained  in  the  chapter  which  it  illustrates,  as  well 
as  in  the  passages  of  Modern  Painters”  therein  referred  to 
(vol.  ii.  pp.  43,  79),  so  little  are  we  now  in  the  habit  of  con- 
sidering the  character  of  abstract  lines,  that  it  was  thought  by 
many  persons  that  this  plate  only  illustrated  Hogarth’s  re- 
versed line  of  beauty,  even  although  the  curve  of  the  salvia 
leaf,  which  was  the  one  taken  from  that  plate  for  future  use, 
in  architecture,  was  not  a reversed  or  serpentine  curve  at  all. 

I shall  now,  however,  I hope,  be  able  to  show  my  meaning 
better. 

§ IX.  Fig.  1 in  Plate  I.,  opposite,  is  a piece  of  ornamenta- 
tion from  a Horman-French  manuscript  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  and  fig.  2 from  an  Italian  one  of  the  fifteenth.  Ob- 
serve in  the  first  its  stern  moderation  in  curvature ; the  gradu- 
ally united  lines  nearly  straight^  though  none  quite  straight, 
used  for  its  main  limb,  and  contrasted  with  the  bold  but 
simple  offshoots  of  its  leaves,  and  the  noble  spiral  from  which 
it  shoots,  these  in  their  turn  opposed  by  the  sharp  trefoils 
and  thorny  cusps.  And  see  what  a reserve  of  resource  there 
is  in  the  whole ; how  easy  it  would  have  been  to  make  the 
curves  more  palpable  and  the  foliage  more  rich,  and  how  the 
noble  hand  has  stayed  itself,  and  refused  to  grant  one  wave  of 
motion  more. 

§ X.  Then  observe  the  other  example,  in  which,  while  the 
same  idea  is  continually  repeated,  excitement  and  interest  are 
sought  for  by  means  of  violent  and  continual  curvatures  wholly 
unrestrained,  and  rolling  hither  and  thither  in  confused  wan- 
tonness. Compare  the  character  of  the  separate  lines  in  these 
two  examples  carefully,  and  bo  assured  that  wherever  this 


1. 


s- 


IN  CURVATURE. 


/ 


tf  ' 

? • .*  ■ 

tf  ■ 


I.  EARLY  REISTATSSAKCE. 


7 


redundant  and  luxurious  curvature  shows  itself  in  ornamenta- 
tion, it  is  a sign  of  jaded  energy  and  failing  invention.  Do 
not  confuse  it  with  fulness  or  richness.  ' Wealth  is  not  neces- 
sarily wantonness : a Gothic  moulding  may  be  buried  lialf  a 
foot  deep  in  thorns  and  leaves,  and  yet  will  be  chaste  in  every 
line ; and  a late  Renaissance  moulding  may  be  utterly  barren 
and  poverty-stricken,  and  yet  will  show  the  disposition  to  lux- 
ury in  every  line. 

§ XI.  Plate  XX.,  in  the  second  volume,  though  prepared 
for  the  special  illustration  of  the  notices  of  capitals,  becomes 
peculiarly  interesting  when  considered  in  relation  to  the  points 
at  present  under  consideration.  The  four  leaves  in  the  upper 
row  are  Byzantine ; the  two  middle  rows  are  transitional,  all 
but  fig.  11,  which  is  of  the  formed  Gothic ; fig.  12  is  perfect 
Gothic  of  the  finest  time  (Ducal  Palace,  oldest  part),  fig.  13  is 
Gothic  beginning  to  decline,  fig.  14  is  Renaissance  Gothic  in 
complete  corruption. 

Now  observe,  first,  the  Gothic  naturalism  advancing  gradu- 
ally from  the  Byzantine  severity ; how  from  the  sharp,  hard, 
formalized  conventionality  of  the  upper  series  the  leaves  grad 
ually  expand  into  more  free  and  fiexible  animation,  until  in 
fig.  12  we  have  the  perfect  living  leaf  as  if  fresh  gathered  out 
of  the  dew.  And  then,  in  the  last  two  examples  and  partly  in 
fig.  11,  observe  how  the  forms  which  can  advance  no  longer 
in  animation,  advance,  or  rather  decline,  into  luxury  and  effemi- 
nacy as  the  strength  of  the  school  expires. 

§ XII.  In  the  second  place,  note  that  the  Byzantine  and 
Gothic  schools,  however  differing  in  degree  of  life,  are  both 
alike  in  temperance^  though  the  temperance  of  the  Gothic  is 
the  nobler,  because  it  consists  with  entire  animation.  Observe 
how  severe  and  subtle  the  curvatures  are  in  all  the  leaves 
from  fig.  1 to  fig.  12,  except  only  in  fig.  11 ; and  observe 
especially  the  firmness  and  strength  obtained  by  the  close 
approximation  to  the  straight  line  in  the  lateral  ribs  of  the 
leaf,  fig.  12.  The  longer  the  eye  rests  on  these  temperate  curva- 
tures the  more  it  will  enjoy  them,  but  it  will  assuredly  in  the 
end  be  wearied  by  the  morbid  exaggeration  of  the  last  example. 


8 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


§ XIII.  Finaiiy,  observe — and  this  is  very  important — how 
one  and  the  same  character  in  the  work  may  be  a sign  of 
totally  different  states  of  mind,  and  therefore  in  one  case  bad, 
and  in  the  other  good.  The  examples,  fig.  3.  and  fig.  12.,  are 
both  equally  pure  in  line ; but  one  is  subdivided  in  the  ex- 
treme, the  other  broad  in  the  extreme,  and  both  are  beautiful. 
The  Byzantine  mind  delighted  in  the  delicacy  of  subdivision 
which  nature  shows  in  the  fern-leaf  or  parsley-leaf ; and  so, 
also,  often  the  Gothic  mind,  much  enjoying  the  oak,  thorn, 
and  thistle.  But  the  builder  of  the  Ducal  Palace  used  great 
breadth  in  his  foliage,  in  order  to  harmonize  with  the  broad 
surface  of  his  mighty  wall,  and  delighted  in  this  breadth  as 
nature  delights  in  the  sweeping  freshness  of  the  dock-leaf  or 
water-lily.  Both  breadth  and  subdivision  are  thus  noble,  when 
they  are  contemplated  or  conceived  by  a mind  in  health ; and 
both  become  ignoble,  when  conceived  by  a mind  jaded  and 
satiated.  The  subdivision  in  fig.  13  as  compared-  with  the 
type,  fig.  12,  which  it  was  intended  to  improve,  is  the  sign, 
not  of  a mind  which  loved  intricacy,  but  of  one  which  could 
not  relish  simplicity,  wliich  had  not  strength  enough  to  enjoy 
the  broad  masses  of  the  earlier  leaves,  and  cut  them  to  pieces 
idly,  like  a child  tearing  tlie  book  which,  in  its  weariness,  it 
cannot  read.  And  on  the  other  hand,  we  shall  continually 
find,  in  other  examples  of  work  of  the  same  period,  an  un- 
wholesome breadth  or  heaviness,  which  results  from  the  mind 
having  no  longer  any  care  for  refinement  or  precision,  nor 
taking  any  delight  in  delicate  forms,  but  making  all  things 
blunted,  cumbrous,  and  dead,  losing  at  the  same  time  the  sense 
of  the  elasticity  and  spring  of  natural  curves.  It  is  as  if  the 
soul  of  man,  itself  severed  from  the  root  of  its  health,  and 
about  to  fall  into  corruption,  lost  the  perception  of  life  in  all 
things  around  it ; and  could  no  more  distinguish  the  wave  of 
the  strong  branches,  full  of  muscular  strength  and  sanguine 
circulation,  from  the  lax  bending  of  a broken  cord,  nor  the 
sinuousiiess  of  the  edge  of  the  leaf,  crushed  into  deep  folds  by 
the  expansion  of  its  living  growth,  from  the  wrinkled  contrac* 


I.  EARLY  RENAISSANCE, 


9 


Hon  of  its  decay.*  Tims,  in  morals,  there  is  a care  for  trifles 
fwhicli  proceeds  from  love  and  conscience,  and  is  most  holy ; 
and  a care  for  trifles  which  comes  of  idleness  and  frivolity,  and 
is  most  base.  And  so,  also,  there  is  a gravity  proceeding  from 
thought,  which  is  most  noble ; and  a gravity  proceeding  from 
duhiess  and  mere  incapability  of  enjoyment,  which  is  most 
base.  Now,  in  the  various  forms  assumed  by  the  later  Gothic 
of  Yenice,  there  are  one  or  two  features  which,  under  other 
circumstances,  would  not  have  been  signs  of  decline ; but,  in 
the  particular  manner  of  their  occurrence  here,  indicate  the 
fatal  weariness  of  decay.  Of  all  these  features  the  most  dis- 
tinctive are  its  crockets  and  flnials. 

§ XIV.  There  is  not  to  be  found  a single  crocket  or  finial 
upon  any  part  of  the  Ducal  Palace  built  during  the  fourteenth 
century;  and  although  they  occur  on  contemporary,  and  on 
some  much  earlier,  buildings,  they  either  indicate  detached 
examples  of  schools  not  properly  Venetian,  or  are  signs  of 
incipient  decline, 

Tlie  reason  of  this  is,  that  the  finial  is  properly  the  orna- 
ment of  gabled  architecture;  it  is  the  compliance,  in  the 
i * 'or  features  of  the  building,  with  the  spirit  of  its  towers^ 

1 ridged  roof,  and  spires.  Venetian  building  is  not  gabled,  but 
horizontal  in  its  roots  and  general  masses ; therefore  the  finial 
I is  a feature  contradictory  to  its  spirit,  and  adopted  only  in  that 
j search  for  morbid  excitement  which  is  the  infallible  indication 
I of  decline.  When  it  occurs  earlier,  it  is  on  fragments  of 
i true  gabled  architecture,  as,  for  instance,  on  the  porch  of  the 
I Carmini. 

In  proportion  to  the  unjustifiableness  of  its  introduction 
was  the  extravagance  of  the  form  it  assumed ; becoming, 

: sometimes,  a tuft  at  the  top  of  the  ogee  windows,  half  as  high 
as  the  arch  itself,  and  consisting,  in  the  richest  examples,  of  a 
human  figure,  half  emergent  out  of  a cup  of  leafage,  as,  foi 

* There  is  a curious  instance  of  this  in  the  modern  imitations  of  the 
Gotliic  capitals  of  the  Casa  d’ Oro,  employed  in  its  restorations.  The  old 
capitals  look  like  clusters  of  leaves,  the  modern  ones  like  kneaded  masses 
of  dough  with  holes  in  them. 


10 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


instance,  in  the  small  archway  of  the  Campo  San  Zaccaria : 
while  the  crockets,  as  being  at  the  side  of  the  arch,  and  not 
so  strictly  connected  with  its  balance  and  symmetry,  a]3pear  to  ^ 
consider  themselves  at  greater  liberty  even  than  the  finials,  and 
fling  themselves,  hither  and  thither,  in  the  wildest  contortions. 
Fig.  4.  in  Plate  I,  is  the  outline  of  one,  carved  in  stone,  from  . 
the  later  Gothic  of  St.  Mark’s ; flg.  3 a crocket  from  the  flne  \ 
Veronese  Gothic;  in  order  to  enable  the  reader  to  discern  the 
Renaissance  character  better  by  comparison  with  the  examples  j 
of  curvature  above  them,  taken  from  the  manuscripts.  And 
not  content  with  this  exuberance  in  the  external  ornaments  of 
the  arch,  the  flnial  interferes  with  its  traceries.  The  increased 
intricacy  of  these,  as  such,  being  a natural  jirocess  in  the  de- 
velopement  of  Gothic,  would  have  been  no  evil ; but  they  are 
corrupted  by  the  enrichment  of  the  flnial  at  the  point  of  the 
cusp, — corrupted,  that  is  to  say,  in  Venice:  for  at  Verona  the 
flnial,  in  the  form  of  a fleur-de-lis,  appears  long  previously  at 
the  cusp  point,  with  exquisite  effect ; and  in  our  own  best 
Northern  Gothic  it  is  often  used  beautifully  in  this  place,  as 
in  the  window  from  Salisbury,  Plate  XII.  (Vol.  II.),  flg.  2. 
But  in  Venice,  such  a treatment  of  it  was  utterly  contrary  to 
the  severe  spirit  of  the  ancient  traceries  ; and  the  adoption  of 
a leafy  flnial  at  the  extremity  of  the  cusps  in  the  door  of  San 
Stefano,  as  opposed  to  the  simple  ball  which  terminates  those 
of  the  Ducal  Palace,  is  an  unmistakable  indication  of  a ten- 
dency to  decline. 

In  like  manner,  the  enrichment  and  complication  of  the 
jamb  mouldings,  which,  in  other  schools,  might  and  did  take 
place  in  the  healthiest  periods,  are,  at  Venice,  signs  of  decline, 
owing  to  the  entire  inconsistency  of  such  mouldings  with  the 
ancient  love  of  the  single  square  jamb  and  archivolt.  The  . 
])rocess  of  enrichment  in  tlieni  is  shown  by  the  successive  ex- 
amples given  in  Plate  VII.,  below.  Tliey  are  numbered,  and 
explained  in  the  Appendix. 

§ XV.  The  date  at  which  this  corrupt  form  of  Gothic  first 
])revailed  over  the  early  simplicity  of  tlie  Venetian  types  can  i 
be  determined  in  an  instant,  on  the  steps  of  the  choir  of  the  j 


II. 


GOTHIC  CAPITALS. 


i 


I.  EARLY  KEJfAISSAKCE. 


11 


Church  of  St.  John  and  Paul.  On  our  left  hand,  as  we  enter, 
is  the  tomb  of  the  Doge  Marco  Cornaro,  who  died  in  1367. 
It  is  rich  and  fullj  develoiJed  Gothic,  with  crockets  and  finials, 
but  not  yet  attaining  any  extravagant  developement.  Oppo- 
site to  it  is  that  of  the  Doge  Andrea  Morosini,  who  died  in 
1382.  Its  Gothic  is  voluptuous,  and  over-wrought ; the  crock- 
ets are  bold  and  florid,  and  the  enormous  finial  represents  a 
statue  of  St.  Michael.  There  is  no  excuse  for  the  antiquaries 
who,  liaving  this  tomb  before  them,  could  have  attributed  the 
severe  architecture  of  the  Ducal  Palace  to  a later  date;  for 
every  one  of  the  Renaissance  errors  is  here  in  complete  de- 
velopement, though  not  so  grossly  as  entirely  to  destroy  the 
loveliness  of  the  Gothic  forms.  In  the  Porta  della  Carta, 
1423,  tlie  vice  reaches  its  climax. 

§ xvr.  Against  this  degraded  Gothic,  then,  came  up  the 
Renaissance  armies ; and  their  first  assault  was  in  the  require- 
ment of  universal  perfection.  For  the  first  time  since  the 
destruction  of  Rome,  the  world  had  seen,  in  the  Mmrk  of  the 
greatest  artists  of  the  fifteenth  century, — in  the  painting  of 
Ghirlandajo,  Masaccio,  Francia,  Perugino,  Pinturicchio,  and 
Bellini ; in  the  sculpture  of  Mino  da  Fiesole,  of  Ghiberti,  and 
Verrocchio, — a perfection  of  execution  and  fulness  of  knowl- 
edge which  cast  all  previous  art  into  the  shade,  and  which, 
being  in  the  woi-k  of  those  men  united  with  all  that  was  great 
in  that  of  foi’mer  days,  did  indeed  justify  the  utmost  enthu- 
siasm wdth  which  their  efforts  were,  or  could  be,  regarded. 
But  when  this  perfection  had  once  been  exhibited  in  anything, 
it  was  required  in  everything ; the  world  could  no  longer  be 
satisfied  with  less  exquisite  execution,  or  less  disciplined  knowl- 
edge. The  first  thing  that  it  demanded  in  all  work  was,  that 
it  should  be  done  in  a consummate  and  learned  way ; and  men 
altogether  forgot  that  it  was  possible  to  consummate  what  was 
contemptible,  and  to  know  what  was  useless.  Imperatively 
requiring  dexterity  of  touch,  they  gradually  forgot  to  look  for 
tenderness  of  feeling ; inq^eratively  requiring  accuracy  of 
knowledge,  they  gradually  forgot  to  ask  for  originality  of 
thought.  The  thought  and  the  feeling  which  they  despised 


12 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


departed  from  them,  and  they  were  left  to  felicitate  them- 
selves  on  their  small  science  and  their  neat  fingering.  This 
is  the  history  of  the  first  attack  of  the  Renaissance  upon  the 
Gothic  schools,  and  of  its  rapid  results,  more  fatal  and  immedi- 
ate in  architecture  than  in  any  other  art,  because  there  the 
demand  for  perfection  was  less  reasonable,  and  less  consistent 
with  the  capabilities  of  the  workman ; being  utterly  opposed 
to  that  rudeness  or  savageness  on  which,  as  we  saw  above,  the 
nobility  of  the  elder  schools  in  great  part  depends.  But  inas- 
much as  the  innovations  were  founded  on  some  of  the  most 
beautiful  examples  of  art,  and  headed  by  some  of  the  greatest 
men  that  the  world  ever  saw,  and  as  the  Gothic  with  which 
they  interfered  was  corrupt  and  valueless,  the  first  appearance 
of  the  Renaissance  feeling  had  the  appearance  of  a healthy 
movement.  A new-  energy  replaced  whatever  weariness  or 
dulness  had  affected  the  Gothic  mind ; an  exquisite  taste  and 
refinement,  aided  by  extended  knowledge,  furnished  the  first 
models  of  the  new  school ; and  over  the  whole  of  Italy  a style 
arose,  generally  now  known  as  cinque-cento,  whicli  in  sculpture 
and  painting,  as  I just  stated,  produced  the  noblest  masters 
which  the  world  ever  saw,  headed  by  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael, 
and  Leonardo ; but  which  failed  of  doing  the  same  in  architec- 
ture, because,  as  we  have  seen  above,  perfection  is  therein  not 
possible,  and  failed  more  totally  than  it  would  otherwise  have 
done,  because  the  classical  enthusiasm  had  destroyed  the  best 
types  of  architectural  form. 

§ XVII.  For,  observe  here  very  carefully,  the  Renaissance 
principle,  as  it  consisted  in  a demand  for  universal  perfection, 
is  quite  distinct  from  the  Renaissance  principle  as  it  consists 
in  a demand  for  classical  and  Roman  forms  of  perfection. 
And  if  I had  space  to  follow  out  the  subject,  as  I should  de- 
sire, I would  first  endeavor  to  ascertain  wdiat  might  have  been 
the  course  of  the  art  of  Europe  if  no  manuscripts  of  classical 
authors  had  been  recovered,  and  no  remains  of  classical  archi- 
tecture left,  ill  the  fifteenth  century ; so  that  the  executive 
])orfectioii  to  which  the  efforts  of  all  great  men  had  tended  for 
five  hundred  years,  and  which  now  at  last  was  reached,  might 


I.  EARLY  REIS'AISSAKCE. 


13 


have  been  allowed  to  develope  itself  in  its  own  natural  and 
proper  form,  in  connexion  with  the  architectural  structure  of 
earlier  schools.  This  refinement  and  perfection  had  indeed 
its  own  perils,  and  the  history  of  later  Italy,  as  she  sank  into 
pleasure  and  thence  into  corruption,  would  probably  have 
been  the  same  whether  she  had  ever  learned  again  to  write 
pure  Latin  or  not.  Still  the  inquiry  into  the  probable  cause 
of  the  enervation  which  niight  naturally  have  followed  the 
highest  exertion  of  her  energies,  is  a totally  distinct  one  from 
that  into  the  particular  form  given  to  this  enervation  by  her 
classical  learning;  and  it  is  matter  of  considerable  regret  to 
me  that  I cannot  treat  these  two  subjects  separately : I must 
be  content  with  marking  them  for  separation  in  the  mind  of 
the  reader. 

§ xviir.  The  effect,  then,  of  the  sudden  enthusiasm  for  clas- 
sical literature,  which  gained  strength  during  every  hour  of 
the  fifteenth  century,  was,  as  far  as  respected  architecture,  to 
do  away  with  the  entire  system  of  Gothic  science.  The 
pointed  arch,  the  shadowy  vault,  the  clustered  shaft,  the 
heaven-pointing  spire,  were  all  swept  away ; and  no  structure 
was  any  longer  permitted  but  that  of  the  plain  cross-beam 
from  pillar  to  pillar,  over  the  round  arch,  with  square  or  cir- 
cular shafts,  and  a low-gabled  roof  and  pediment : two  ele- 
ments of  noble  form,  which  had  fortunately  existed  in  Rome, 
were,  however,  for  that  reason,  still  permitted;  the  cupola, 
and,  internally,  the  waggon  vault. 

§ XIX.  These  changes  in  form  were  all  of  them  unfortu- 
nate ; and  it  is  almost  impossible  to  do  justice  to  the  occasion- 
ally exquisite  ornamentation  of  the  fifteenth  century,  on  ac- 
count of  its  being  placed  upon  edifices  of  the  cold  and  meagre 
Roman  outline.  There  is,  as  far  as  I know,  only  one  Gothic 
building  in  Europe,  the  Duomo  of  Florence,  in  which,  though 
the  ornament  be  of  a much  earlier  school,  it  is  yet  so  exqui- 
sitely finished  as  to  enable  us  to  imagine  what  might  have 
been  the  effect  of  the  perfect  workmanship  of  tlie  Renaissance, 
coming  out  of  the  hands  of  men  like  Verrocchio  and  Ghiberti, 
had  it  been  enndoyed  on  the  magnificent  framework  of  Gothic 


14 


THIKD  PERIOD. 


structure.  This  is  the  question  which,  as  I shall  note  in  the 
concluding  chapter,  we  ought  to  set  ourselves  practically  to 
solve  in  modern  times. 

§ XX.  The  changes  effected  in  form,  however,  were  the 
least  part  of  the  evil  principles  of  the  Renaissance.  As  I have 
just  said,  its  main  mistake,  in  its  early  stages,  was  the  unwhole- 
some demand  iox  perfection^  at  any  cost.  I hope  enough  has 
been  advanced,  in  the  chapter  on  the  IS^ature  of  Gothic,  to 
show  the  reader  that  perfection  is  not  to  be  had  from  the  gen- 
eral workman,  but  at  the  cost  of  everything, — of  his  whole 
life,  thought,  and  energy.  And  Renaissance  Europe  thought 
this  a small  price  to  pay  for  manipulative  perfection.  Men 
like  Yerrocchio  and  Ghiberti  were  not  to  be  had  every  day, 
nor  in  every  place  ; and  to  require  from  the  common  workman 
execution  or  knowledge  like  theirs,  was  to  require  him  to  be- 
come their  copyist.  Their  strength  was  great  enough  to 
enable  them  to  join  science  with  invention,  method  with  emo- 
tion, finish  with  fire ; but,  in  them,  the  invention  and  the  fire 
were  first,  while  Europe  saw  in  them  only  the  method  and  the 
finish.  This  was  new  to  the  minds  of  men,  and  they  pursued 
it  to  the  neglect  of  everything  else.  This,”  they  cried,  we 
must  have  in  all  our  work  henceforward : ” and  they  were 
obeyed.  The  lower  workman  secured  method  and  finish,  and 
lost,  in  exchange  for  them,  his  soul. 

§ XXI.  Now,  tlierefore,  do  not  let  me  be  misunderstood 
when  I speak  generally  of  the  evil  spirit  of  the  Renaissance. 
The  reader  may  look  through  all  I have  written,  from  first  to 
last,  and  he  will  not  find  one  word  but  of  the  most  profound 
reverence  for  those  mighty  men  who  could  wear  the  Renais- 
sance armor  of  proof,  and  yet  not  feel  it  encumber  their 
living  limbs, — Leonardo  and  Michael  Angelo,  Ghirlandajo 
and  Masaccio,  Titian  and  Tintoret.  But  I speak  of  the  Renais- 
sance as  an  evil  time,  because,  when  it  saw  those  men  go  burn- 
ing forth  into  the  battle,  it  mistook  their  armor  for  their 

* Not  tliat  even  these  men  were  able  to  wear  it  altogether  without  harnij 
as  we  shall  see  iu  the  next  chapter. 


1.  EARLY  REKAISSAKCE. 


15 


sirengtli : and  tortliwitli  encumbered  with  the  painful  panoply 
every  stripling  who  ought  to  have  gone  forth  only  with  his 
own  choice  of  three  smooth  stones  out  of  the  brook. 

§ XXII.  This,  then,  the  reader  must  always  keep  in  mind 
when  he  is  examining  for  himself  any  examples  of  cinque- 
cento  work.  When  it  has  been  done  by  a truly  great  man, 
whose  life  and  strength  could  not  be  oppressed,  and  who  turned 
to  good  account  the  whole  science  of  his  day,  nothing  is  more 
exquisite.  I do  not  believe,  for  instance,  that  there  is  a more 
glorious  work  of  sculpture  existing  in  the  world  than  that 
equestrian  statue  of  Bartolomeo  Colleone,  byYerrocchio,  of 
which,  I hope,  before  these  pages  are  printed,  there  will  be  a 
cast  in  England.  But  when  the  cinque-cento  work  has  been 
done  by  those  meaner  men,  who,  in  the  Gothic  times,  thougli 
in  a rough  way,  would  yet  have  found  some  means  of  speaking 
out  what  was  in  their  hearts,  it  is  utterly  inanimate, — a base 
and  helpless  copy  of  more  accomplished  models;  or,  if  not 
this,  a mere  accumulation  of  technical  skill,  in  gaining  which 
the  workman  had  surrendered  all  other  powers  that  were  in 
him. 

There  is,  therefore,  of  course,  an  infinite  gradation  in  the 
art  of  the  period,  from  the  Sistine  Chapel  down  to  modern  up- 
holstery ; but,  for  the  most  j)art,  since  in  architecture  the  work- 
man must  be  of  an  inferior  order,  it  will  be  found  that  tliis 
cinque-cento  painting  and  higher  religious  sculpture  is  noble, 
while  the  cinque-cento  architecture,  wuth  its  subordinate  sculp- 
ture, is  universally  bad ; sometimes,  however,  assuming  forms, 
in  which  the  consummate  refinement  almost  atones  for  the  loss 
of  force. 

§ XXIII.  This  is  especially  the  case  with  that  second  branch 
of  the  Renaissance  which,  as  above  noticed,  was  engrafted  at 
Venice  on  the  Byzantine  types.  So  soon  as  the  classical  enthu- 
siasm required  the  banishment  of  Gothic  forms,  it  was  natural 
that  the  Venetian  mind  should  turn  back  with  affection  to  the 
Byzantine  models  in  which  the  round  arches  and  simple  shafts, 
necessitated  by  recent  law,  were  presented  under  a form  con- 
secrated by  the  usage  of  their  ancestors.  And,  accordingly, 


16 


THIRD  PERIOD, 


the  first  distinct  school  of  architecture'^  which  arose  under  the 
new  dynasty,  was  one  in  which  the  method  of  inlaying  marble, 
and  the  general  forms  of  shaft  and  arch,  were  adopted  from 
the  buildings  of  the  twelfth  century,  and  applied  witli  the  ut- 
most possible  refinements  of  modern  skill.  Both  at  Verona 
and  Venice  the  resulting  architecture  is  exceedingly  beautiful. 
At  Verona  it  is,  indeed,  less  Byzantine,  but  possesses  a charac- 
ter of  richness  and  tenderness  almost  peculiar  to  that  city.  At 
Venice  it  is  more  severe,  but  yet  adorned  with  sculpture  which, 
for  sharpness  of  touch  and  delicacy  of  minute  form,  cannot  be 
rivalled,  and  rendered  especially  brilliant  and  beautiful  by  the 
introduction  of  those  inlaid  circles  of  colored  marble,  serpen- 
tine, and  porphyry,  by  which  Phillippe  de  Commynes  was  so 
much  struck  on  his  first  entrance  into  the  city.  The  two  most 
refined  buildings  in  this  style  in  Venice  are,  the  small  Church 
of  the  Miracoli,  and  the  Scuola  di  San  Marco  beside  the  Church 
of  St.  John  and  St.  Paul.  The  noblest  is  the  Rio  Facade  of 
the  Ducal  Palace.  The  Casa  Dario,  and  Casa  Manzoni,  on  the 
Grand  Canal,  are  exquisite  examples  of  the  school,  as  applied 
to  domestic  architecture ; and,  in  the  reach  of  the  canal  be- 
tween the  Casa  Foscari  and  the  Rialto,  there  are  several  palaces, 
of  which  the  Casa  Contarini  (called  ^^delle  Figure”)  is  the 
principal,  belonging  to  the  same  group,  though  somewhat  later, 
and  remarkable  for  the  association  of  the  Byzantine  principles 
of  color  with  the  severest  lines  of  the  Roman  pediment,  grad- 
ually superseding  the  round  arch.  The  precision  of  chiselling 
and  delicacy  of  proportion  in  the  ornament  and  general  lines 
of  these  palaces  cannot  be  too  highly  praised ; and  I believe 
that  the  traveller  in  Venice,  in  general,  gives  them  rather  too 
little  attention  than  too  much.  But  while  I would  ask  him  to 
stay  his  gondola  beside  each  of  them  long  enough  to  examine 
their  every  line,  I must  also  warn  him  to  observe,  most  care- 
fully, the  peculiar  feebleness  and  want  of  soul  in  the  concep- 
tion of  their  ornament,  which  mark  them  as  belonging  to  a 
period  of  decline ; as  well  as  the  absurd  mode  of  introduction 


Appendix  4,  '‘Date  of  Palaces  of  Byzantine  Kenaissance.” 


I.  EAllLY  REKAIBSAKCE. 


17 


of  their  pieces  of  colored  inarhle  : tliese,  instead  of  being  simply 
and  naturally  inserted  in  the  masonry,  are  placed  in  small  circu- 
lar or  oblong  frames  of  sculpture,  like  mirrors  or  pictures,  and 
ai’e  represented  as  suspended  by  ribands  against  the  wall ; a 
pair  of  wings  being  generally  fastened  on  to  the  circular  tablets, 
as  if  to  relieve  the  ribands  and  knots  from  their  weight,  and 
the  whole  series  tied  under  the  chin  of  a little  cherub  at  the 
top,  who  is  nailed  against  the  facade  like  a hawk  on  a baiai 
door. 

But  chiefly  let  him  notice,  in  the  Casa  Contarini  delle 
Figure,  one  most  strange  incident,  seeming  to  have  been  per- 
mitted, like  the  choice  of  the  subjects  at  the  three  angles  of 
the  Ducal  Palace,  in  order  to  teach  us,  by  a single  lesson,  the 
true  nature  of  the  style  in  which  it  occurs.  In  the  intervals 
of  the  windows  of  the  first  story,  certain  shields  and  torches 
are  attached,  in  the  form  of  trophies,  to  the  stems  of  two  trees 
whose  boughs  have  been  cut  off,  and  only  one  or  two  of  their 
faded  leaves  left,  scarcely  observable,  but  delicately  sculptured 
here  and  there,  beneath  the  insertions  of  the  severed  boughs. 

It  is  as  if  the  workman  had  intended  to  leave  us  an  image 
of  the  expiring  naturalism  of  the  Grothic  school.  I had  not 
seen  this  sculpture  when  I wrote  the  passage  referring  to  its 
period,  in  the  first  volume  of  this  work  (Chap.  XX.  § xxxi.) : 
— ^•Autumn  came, — the  leaves  were  shed, — and  the  eye  was 
directed  to  the  extremities  of  the  delicate  branches.  The 
Renaissance  f rosts  came^  and  all  jperished  T 

§ XXIV.  And  the  hues  of  this  autumn  of  the  early  Penais- 
sance  are  the  last  which  appear  in  architecture.  The  winter 
which  succeeded  was  colorless  as  it  was  cold;  and  although 
the  Venetian  painters  struggled  long  against  its  influence,  the 
numbness  of  the  architecture  prevailed  over  them  at  lastj  and 
the  exteriors  of  all  the  latter  palaces  were  built  only  in  barren 
stone.  As  at  this  point  of  our  inquiry,  therefore,  we  must  bid 
farewell  to  color,  I have  reserved  for  this  place  the  co'ntintia' 
tion  of  the  history  of  chromatic  decoration,  from  the  By;^an- 
tine  period,  when  we  left  it  in  the  fifth  chapter  of  the  .second- 
volume,  down  to  its  final  close.  ' ^ 


18 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


§ XXV.  It  was  above  stated,  tliat  the  principal  difference  in 
general  form  and  treatment  between  the  Byzantine  and  Gothic 
palaces  was  the  contraction  of  the  marble  facing  into  the  nar- 
row spaces  between  the  windows,  leaving  large  fields  of  brick 
wall  perfectly  bare.  The  reason  for  this  appears  to  have  been, 
that  the  Gothic  builders  were  no  longer  satisfied  with  the  faint 
and  delicate  hues  of  the  veined  marble ; they  wished  for  some 
more  forcible  and  piquant  mode  of  decoration,  corresponding 
more  completely  with  the  gradually  advancing  splendor  of 
chivalric  costume  and  heraldic  device.  What  I have  said 
above  of  the  simple  habits  of  life  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
in  no  wise  refers  either  to  costumes  of  state,  or  of  military 
service ; and  any  illumination  of  the  thirteenth  and  early  four- 
teenth centuries  (the  great  period  being,  it  seems  to  me,  from 
1250  to  1350),  while  it  shows  a peculiar  majesty  and  simplicity 
in  the  fall  of  the  robes  (often  worn  over  the  chain  armor), 
indicates,  at  the  same  time,  an  exquisite  brilliancy  of  color  and 
power  of  design  in  the  hems  and.  border’s,  as  well  as  in  the 
armorial  bearings  with  which  they  are  charged ; and  while,  as 
we  have  seen,  a peculiar  simplicity  is  found  also  in  the  forms 
of  the  architecture,  corresponding  to  that  of  the  folds  of  the 
robes,  its  colors  were  constantly  increasing  in  brilliancy  and 
decision,  corresponding  to  those  of  the  quartering  of  the  shield, 
and  of  the  embroidery  of  the  mantle. 

§ XXVI.  Whether,  indeed,  derived  from  the  quarterings  of 
the  knights’  shields,  or  from  what  other  source,  I know  not ; 
but  there  is  one  magnificent  attribute  of  the  coloring  of  the 
late  twelfth,  the  whole  thirteenth,  and  the  early  fourteenth 
century,  Avhich  I do  not  find  definitely  in  any  previous  work, 
nor  afterwards  in  general  art,  though  constantly,  and  neces- 
sarily, in  that  of  great  colorists,  namely,  the  union  of  one  color 
with  another  by  reciprocal  interference : that  is  to  say,  if  a 
mass  of  red  is  to  be  set  beside  a mass  of  blue,  a piece  of  the 
red  will  be  carried  into  the  blue,  and  a piece  of  the  blue  car- 
ried into  the  red ; sometimes  in  nearly  equal  j)ortions,  as  in  a 
shield  divided  into  four  quarters,  of  which  the  iqipermost  on 
one  side  will  be  of  the  same  color  as  the  lowermost  on  the 


1.  EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


10 


otlier;  sometimes  in  smaller  fragments,  but,  in  the  periods 
above  named,  always  definitely  and  grandly,  though  in  a thou- 
sand various  ways.  And  I call  it  a magnificent  principle,  for 
it  is  an  eternal  and  universal  one,  not  in  art  only,*  but  in 
human  life.  It  is  the  great  principle  of  Brotherhood,  r.ot  by 
ecpiality,  nor  by  likeness,  but  by  giving  and  receiving ; the 
souls  that  are  unlike,  and  the  nations  that  are  unlike,  and  the 
natures  that  are  unlike,  being  bound  into  one  noble  whole  by 
each  receiving  something  from,  and  of,  the  others’  gifts  and 
the  others’  gloiy.  I have  not  space  to  follow  out  this  tliought, 
— it  is  of  infinite  extent  and  application, — but  I note  it  for  the 
reader’s  pursuit,  because  I have  long  believed,  and  the  whole 
second  volume  of  “Modern  Painters”  was  written  to  prove, 
that  in  whatever  has  been  made  by  the  Deity  externally  de- 
lightful to  the  human  sense  of  beauty,  there  is  some  type  of 
God’s  nature  or  of  God’s  laws ; nor  are  any  of  His  laws,  in 
one  sense,  greater  than  the  appointment  that  the  most  lovely 
and  perfect  unity  shall  be  obtained  by  the  taking  of  one  nature 
into  another.  1 trespass  upon  too  high  ground ; and  yet  I 
cannot  fully  show  the  reader  the  extent  of  this  law,  but  by 
leading  him  tlius  far.  And  it  is  just  because  it  is  so  vast  and 
so  awful  a law,  that  it  has  rule  over  the  smallest  things ; and 
there  is  not  a vein  of  color  on  the  lightest  leaf  which  the 
spring  winds  are  at  this  moment  unfolding  in  the  fields  around 

* In  the  various  works  which  Mr.  Prout  has  written  on  light  and  shade, 
no  principle  will  be  found  insisted  on  more  strongly  than  this  carrying  of 
the  dark  into  the  light,  and  mce  versa.  It  is  curious  to  find  the  untaught 
instinct  of  a merely  picturesque  artist  in  the  nineteenth  century,  fixing  itself 
so  intensely  on  a principle  which  regulated  the  entire  sacred  composition  of 
the  thirteenth.  I say  “untaught”  instinct,  for  Mr.  Prout  was,  throughout 
his  life,  the  discoverer  of  his  own  principles;  fortunately  so,  considering 
what  principles  were  taught  in  his  time,  but  unfortunately  in  the  abstract, 
for  there  were  gifts  in  him,  which,  had  there  been  any  wholesome  influ- 
ences to  cherish  them,  might  have  made  him  one  of  the  greatest  men  of  his 
age.  He  w^as  great,  under  all  adverse  circumstances,  but  the  mere  wreck 
of  what  he  might  have  been,  if,  after  the  rough  training  noticed  in  my 
pamphlet  on  Pre-Raphaelitism,  as  having  fitted  him  for  his  great  function 
in  the  world,  he  had  met  with  a teacher  who  could  have  appreciated  hia 
powers,  and  directed  them. 


20 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


US,  but  it  is  an  illustration  of  an  ordainment  to  wliicli  tlie 
earth  and  its  creatures  owe  their  continuance,  and  their  Ee- 
demption. 

§ XXVII.  It  is  perfectly  inconceivable,  until  it  has  been 
made  a subject  of  special  inquiry,  how  perpetually  Nature 
employs  this  principle  in  the  distribution  of  her  light  and 
shade ; how  by  the  most  extraordinary  adaptations,  apparently 
accidental,  but  always  in  exactly  the  right  place,  she  contrives 
to  bring  darkness  into  light,  and  light  into  darkness ; and  that 
so  sharply  and  decisively,  that  at  the  very  instant  when  one 
object  changes  from  light  to  dark,  the  thing  relieved  upon  it 
will  change  from  dark  to  light,  and  yet  so  subtly  that  the  eye 
will  not  detect  the  transition  till  it  looks  for  it.  The  secret 
of  a great  part  of  the  grandeur  in  all  the  noblest  compositions 
is  the  doing  of  this  delicately  in  degree^  and  broadly  in  muss  ; 
in  color  it  may  be  done  much  more  decisively  than  in  light 
and  shade,  and,  according  to  the  simplicity  of  the  work,  witli 
greater  frankness  of  confession,  until,  in  purely  decorative 
art,  as  in  the  illumination,  glass-painting,  and  heraldry  of  the 
great  periods,  we  find  it  reduced  to  segmental  accuracy.  Its 
greatest  masters,  in  high  art,  are  Tintoret,  Veronese,  and 
Turner. 

§ XXVIII.  Together  with  tliis  great  principle  of  quartering 
is  introduced  another,  also  of  very  high  value  as  far  as  regards 
the  delight  of  the  eye,  though  not  of  so  profound  meaning. 
As  soon  as  color  began  to  be  used  in  broad  and  opposed  fields, 
it  was  perceived  that  the  mass  of  it  destroyed  its  brilliancy, 
and  it  was  tempered  by  chequering  it  with  some  other  color  or 
colors  in  smaller  quantities,  mingled  with  minute  qiortions  of 
pure  white.  The  two  moral  principles  of  which  this  is  the 
type,  are  those  of  Temperance  and  Purity ; the  one  requiring 
the  fulness  of  the  color  to  be  subdued,  and  the  otlier  that  it 
shall  be  subdued  without  losing  either  its  own  purity  or  that 
of  the  colors  with  which  it  is  associated. 

§ XXIX.  Hence  arose  the  universal  and  admirable  system  oi 
the  diapered  or  chequered  background  of  early  ornamental  art : 
They  are  completely  developed  in  the  thirteenth  century,  and 


1.  EAKLY  UEJSrAISSANCE. 


21. 


extend  tlirongh  the  wliole  of  the  fourteenth  gradually  yielding 
to  landscape,  and  other  pictorial  backgrounds,  as  the  designers 
lost  perception  of  the  purpose  of  their  art,  and  of  the  value 
of  cdor.  The  chromatic  decoration  of  the  Gothic  palaces  of 
Yenice  was  of  course  founded  on  these  two  great  principles, 
which  prevailed  constantly  wherever  the  true  chivalric  and 
Gotiiic  spirit  possessed  any  influence.  The  windows,  with 
their  intermediate  spaces  of  marble,  were  considered  as  the 
objects  to  be  relieved,  and  variously  quartered  with  vigorous 
color.  The  whole  space  of  the  brick  wall  was  considered  as  a 
background ; it  was  covered  with  stucco,  and  painted  in  fresco, 
with  diaper  patterns.  ’ 

§ xxx.  What?  the  reader  asks  in  some  surprise,— Stucco ! 
and  in  the  great  Gothic  period  ? Even  so,  but  not  stucco  to 
tmitate  stone.  Herein  lies  all  the  difference ; it  is  stucco  con- 
fessed and  understood,  and  laid  on  the  bricks  precisely  as  gesso 
IS  laid  on  canvas,  in  order  to  form  them  into  a ground  for 
receiving  color  from  the  human  hand, — color  which,  if  well 
laid  on,  might  render  the  brick  wall  more  precious  than  if  it 
had  been  built  of  emeralds.  Whenever  we  wish  to  paint,  we 
may  prepare  our  paper  as  we  choose ; the  value  of  the  ground 
in  no  wise  adds  to  the  value  of  the  picture.  A Tintoret  on 
beaten  gold  would  be  of  no  more  value  than  a Tintoret  on 
coarse  canvas;  the  gold  would  merely  be  wasted.  All  that 
we  have  to  do  is  to  make  the  ground  as  good  and  fit  for  the 
j color  as  possible,  by  whatever  means. 

§ XXXI.  I am  not  sure  if  I am  right  in  applying  the  term 
“stucco”  to  the  ground  of  fresco;  but  this  is  of  no  conse- 
quence ; the  reader  will  understand  that  it  was  white,  and  that 
the  whole  wall  of  the  palace  was  considered  as  the  page  of  a 
book  to  be  illuminated : but  he  will  understand  also  that  the 
sea  winds  are  bad  librarians;  that,  when  once  the  painted 
stucco  began  to  fade  or  to  fall,  the  unsightliness  of  the  defaced 
color  would  necessitate  its  immediate  restoration;  and  that 
therefore,  of  all  the  chromatic  decoration  of  the  Gothic  palaces, 
jthere  is  hardly  a fragment  left. 

IIap2>ily,  in  the  pictures  of  Gentile  Bellini,  the  fresco  color- 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


22 

ing  of  the  Gotliic  palaces  is  recorded,  as  it  still  remained  in 
his  time ; not  with  rigid  accuracy,  but  (piite  distinctly  enough 
to  enable  us,  by  comparing  it  with  the  existing  colored  designs 
in  the  manuscripts  and  glass  of  the  period,  to  ascertain  pre- 
cisely what  it  must  have  been. 

§ XXXII.  The  walls  were  generally  covered  with  chequers 
of  very  warm  color,  a russet  inclining  to  scarlet,  more  or  less 
relieved  with  white,  black,  and  grey ; as  still  seen  in  the  only 
example  which,  having  been  executed  in  marble,  has  been  per- 
fectly preserved,  the  front  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  This,  how- 
ever, owing  to  the  nature  of  its  materials,  was  a peculiarly 
simple  example  ; the  ground  is  white,  crossed  with  double 
bars  of  pale  red,  and  in  the  centre  of  each  chequer  there  is  a 
cross,  alternately  black  with  a red  centre  and  red  with  a black 
centre  where  the  arms  cross.  In  painted  work  the  grounds 
would  be,  of  course,  as  varied  and  complicated  as  those  of 
manuscripts ; but  I only  know  of  one  example  left,  on  the 
Casa  Sagredo,  where,  on  some  fragments  of  stucco,  a very 
early  chequer  background  is  traceable,  composed  of  crimson 
quatrefoils  interlaced,  with  cherubim  stretching  their  wings 
filling  the  intervals.  A small  portion  of  this  ground  is  seen 
beside  the  window  taken  from  the  palace,  Yol.  II.  Plate 
XIII.  fig.  1.  : 

§ XXXIII.  It  ought  to  be  especially  noticed,  that,  in  all  ^ 
chequered  patterns  employed  in  the  colored  designs  of  these  ;• 
noble  periods,  the  greatest  care  is  taken  to  mark  that  they  are  ^ 
(jrounds  of  design  rather  than  designs  themselves.  Modern  / 
architects,  in  such  minor  imitations  as  they  are  beginning  to  \ 
attempt,  endeavor  to  dispose  the  parts  in  the  patterns  so  as  .3 
to  occupy  certain  symmetrical  positions  with  respect  to  the  . 
parts  of  the  architecture.  A Gothic  builder  never  does  this : ; 
he  cuts  his  ground  into  pieces  of  the  shape  he  requires  with  ' 
utter  remorselessness,  and  places  his  windows  or  doors  upon  . 
it  with  no  regard  whatever  to  the  lines  in  which  they  cut  the 
pattern : and,  in  illuminations  of  manuscripts,  the  chequer 
itself  is  constantly  changed  in  the  most  subtle  and  arbitrary 
way,  wherever  there  is  the  least  chance  of  its  regularity  ab 


I.  EAKLY  KENAISbAXCE. 


23 


tracting  the  eye,  and  making  it  of  importance.  So  intentional 
is  this,  that  a diaper  pattern  is  often  set  obliquely  to  the  verti- 
cal lines  of  the  designs,  for  fear  it  sliould  appear  in  any  way 
connected  witli  them. 

§ XXXIV.  On  these  russet  or  crimson  backgrounds  the  entire 
space  of  the  series  of  windows  was  relieved,  for  the  most  part, 
as  a subdued  white  field  of  alabaster ; and  on  this  delicate  and 
veined  white  were  set  the  circular  disks  of  purple  and  green. 
The  arms  of  the  family  were  of  course  blazoned  in  their  own 
jiroper  colors,  but  I think  generally  on  a pure  azure  ground ; 
the  blue  color  is  still  left  behind  the  shields  in  the  Casa  Priuli 
and  one  or  two  more  of  the  palaces  which  are  unrestored,  and 
the  blue  ground  was  used  also  to  relieve  the  sculptures  of  re- 
ligious subject.  Finally,  all  the  mouldings,  capitals,  cornices, 
cusj)s,  and  traceries,  were  either  entirely  gilded  or  profusely 
touched  with  gold. 

The  whole  front  of  a Gothic  palace  in  Venice  may,  there- 
fore, be  simply  described  as  a field  of  subdued  russet,  quartered 
with  broad  sculptured  masses  of  white  and  gold ; these  latter 
being  relieved  by  smaller  inlaid  fragments  of  blue,  purple,  and 
deep  green. 

§ XXXV.  Now,  from  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, when  painting  and  architecture  were  thus  united,  two 
processes  of  change  went  on  simultaneously  to  the  beginning 
of  the  seventeenth.  The  merely  decorative  chequeriiigs  on 
the  walls  yielded  gradually  to  more  elaborate  paintings  of 
figure-subject ; first  small  and  quaint,  and  then  enlarging  into 
enormous  pictures  filled  by  figures  generally  colossal.  As 
these  paintings  became  of  greater  merit  and  importance,  the 
ai’chitecture  with  which  they  were  associated  was  less  studied ; 
and  at  last  a style  was  introduced  in  which  the  framework  of 
the  building  was  little  more  interesting  than  that  of  a Man- 
I Chester  factory,  but  the  whole  space  of  its  walls  was  covered 
with  the  most  precious  fresco  paintings.  Such  edifices  are  of 
course  no  longer  to  be  considered  as  forming  an  architectural 
school ; they  were  merely  large  preparations  of  artists’  panels ; 
^and  Titian,  Giorgione,  and  A'cronese  no  more  conferred  merit 


24 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


on  the  later  architecture  of  V enice,  as  such,  by  painting  on  its 
fagades,  than  Landseer  or  Watts  could  confer  merit  on  that 
of  London  by  first  whitewashing  and  then  painting  its  brick 
streets  from  one  end  to  the  other. 

§ XXXVI.  Contemporarily  with  this  change  in  the  relative 
values  of  the  color  decoration  and  the  stonework,  one  equally 
important  was  taking  place  in  the  opposite  direction,  but  of 
course  in  another  group  of  buildings.  For  in  proportion  as 
the  architect  felt  himself  thrust  aside  or  forgotten  in  one  edi- 
fice, he  endeavored  to  make  himself  princijial  in  another  ; and, 
in  retaliation  for  the  painter’s  entire  usurpation  of  certain 
fields  of  design,  succeeded  in  excluding  him  totally  from  those 
in  which  his  own  influence  was  predominant.  Or,  more  accu- 
rately speaking,  the  architects  began  to  be  too  proud  to  receive 
assistance  from  the  colorists ; and  these  latter  sought  for 
ground  which  the  architect  had  abandoned,  for  the  unre- 
strained display  of  their  own  skill.  And  thus,  while  one 
series  of  edifices  is  continually  becoming  feebler  in  design  and 
richer  in  superimposed  paintings,  another,  that  of  which  we 
have  so  often  spoken  as  the  earliest  or  Byzantine  Renaissance, 
fragment  by  fragment  rejects  the  pictorial  decoration;  supplies 
its  place  first  with  marbles,  and  then,  as  the  latter  are  felt  by 
the  architect,  daily  increasing  in  arrogance  and  deepening  in 
coldness,  to  be  too  bright  for  his  dignity,  he  casts  even  these 
aside  one  by  one : and  when  the  last  porphyry  circle  has  van- 
ished from  the  fagade,  we  find  two  palaces  standing  side  by 
side,  one  built,  so  far  as  mere  masonry  goes,  with  consummate 
care  and  skill,  but  without  the  slightest  vestige  of  color  in  any 
part  of  it ; the  other  utterly  without  any  claim  to  interest  in 
its  architectural  form,  but  covered  from  top  to  bottom  with 
paintings  by  Veronese.  At  this  period,  then,  we  bid  farewell 
to  color,  leaving  the  painters  to  their  own  peculiar  field ; and  , 
only  regretting  that  they  waste  their  noblest  work  on  walls,  I 
from  which  in  a couple  of  centuries,  if  not  before,  the  greater  f 
part  of  their  labor  must  be  effaced.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
architecture  whose  decline  we  are  tracing,  has  now  assumed  i 
an  entirely  new  condition,  that  of  the  Central  or  True  Re>,  j 


I.  EARLY  REi^AISSAi^CE. 


25 


naissaiice,  whose  nature  we  are  to  examine  in  the  next 
cliapter. 

§ xxxYii.  But  before  leaving  these  last  palaces  over  which 
the  Byzantine  influence  extended  itself,  there  is  one  more 
lesson  to  be  learned  from  them  of  much  importance  to  us. 
Though  in  many  respects  debased  in  style,  they  are  consum- 
mate in  workmanship,  and  unstained  in  honor ; there  is  no  im- 
perfection in  them,  and  no  dishonesty.  That  there  is  absolutely 
no  imperfection,  is  indeed,  as  we  have  seen  above,  a proof  of 
their  being  wanting  in  the  highest  qualities  of  architecture ; 
but,  as  lessons  in  masonry,  they  have  their  value,  and  may  well 
be  studied  for  the  excellence  they  display  in  methods  of  level- 
ling stones,  for  the  precision  of  their  inlaying,  and  other  such 
qualities,  which  in  them  are  indeed  too  principal,  yet  very  in- 
structive in  their  particular  way. 

§ XXXVIII.  For  instance,  in  the  inlaid  design  of  the  dove 
with  the  olive  branch,  from  the  Casa  Trevisan  (Vol.  I.  Plate 
XX.  p.  369),  it  is  impossible  for  anything  to  go  beyond  the 
precision  with  which  the  olive  leaves  are  cut  out  of  the  white 
marble  ; and,  in  some  wreaths  of  laurel  below,  the  rippled  edge 
of  each  leaf  is  as  finely  and  easily  drawn,  as  if  by  a delicate 
pencil.  No  Florentine  table  is  more  exquisitely  finished  than 
the  facade  of  this  entire  palace ; and  as  ideals  of  an  executive 
perfection,  which,  though  we  must  not  turn  aside  from  our 
main  path  to  reach  it,  may  yet  with  much  advantage  be  kept  in 
our  sight  and  memory,  these  palaces  are  most  notable  amidst 
the  architecture  of  Europe.  The  Pio  Fagade  of  the  Ducal 
Palace,  though  very  sparing  in  color,  is  yet,  as  an  example  of 
finished  masonry  in  a vast  building,  one  of  the  finest  things, 
not  only  in  Venice,  but  in  the  world.  It  differs  from  other 
work  of  the  Byzantine  Renaissance,  in  being  on  a very  large 
scale  ; and  it  still  retains  one  pure  Gothic  character,  which  adds 
not  a little  to  its  nobleness,  that  of  perpetual  variety.  There 
is  hardly  one  wdndow^  of  it,  or  one  panel,  that  is  like  another  ; 
and  this  continual  change  so  increases  its  apparent  size  by  con- 
, fusing  the  eye,  that,  though  presenting  no  bold  features,  or 
striking  masses  of  any  kind,  there  are  few  things  in  Italy  more 


26 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


impressive  tlian  the  vision  of  it  overhead,  as  the  gondola  glides 
from  beneath  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  And  lastly  (unless  we  are 
to  blame  these  buildings  for  some  pieces  of  very  childish  per- 
spective), they  are  magnificently  honest,  as  well  as  perfect.  I 
do  not  remember  even  any  gilding  upon  them ; all  is  pure 
marble,  and  of  the  finest  kind.'^ 

And  therefore,  in  finally  leaving  the  Ducal  Palace,t  let  us 
take  with  us  one  more  lesson,  the  last  which  we  shall  receive 
from  the  Stones  of  Venice,  except  in  the  form  of  a warning. 

§ XXXIX.  The  school  of  architecture  which  we  have  just 
been  examining  is,  as  we  have  seen  above,  redeemed  from 
severe  condemnation  by  its  careful  and  noble  use  of  inlaid 
marbles  as  a means  of  color.  From  that  time  forward,  this  art 
has  been  unknown,  or  despised  ; the  frescoes  of  the  swift  and 
daring  Venetian  painters  long  contended  with  the  inlaid 
marbles,  outvying  them  with  color,  indeed  more  glorious  than 
theirs,  but  fugitive  as  the  hues  of  woods  in  autumn ; and,  at 
last,  as  the  art  itself  of  painting  in  this  mighty  manner  failed 
from  among  men,;}:  the  modern  decorative  system  established 
itself,  which  united  the  meaninglessness  of  the  veined  marble 
with  the  evanescence  of  the  fresco,  and  completed  the  harmony 
by  falsehood. 

§ XL.  Since  first,  in  the  second  chapter  of  the  Seven 
Lamps,’’  I endeavored  to  show  the  culpableness,  as  well  as  the 
baseness,  of  our  common  modes  of  decoration  by  painted  imi- 

* There  may,  however,  be  a kind  of  dishonesty  even  in  the  use  of 
marble,  if  it  is  attempted  to  make  the  marble  look  like  something  else.  See 
the  final  or  Venetian  Index  under  head  “ Scalzi.” 

f Appendix  5,  “Renaissance  Side  of  Ducal  Palace.” 
t We  have,  as  far  as  I know,  at  present  among  us,  only  one  painter,  G. 
F.  Watts,  who  is  capable  of  design  in  color  on  a large  scale.  He  stands 
alone  among  our  artists  of  the  old  school,  in  his  perception  of  the  value  of 
breadth  in  distant  masses,  and  in  the  vigor  of  invention  by  which  such 
bnadtli  must  be  sustained;  and  his  power  of  expression  and  depth  of 
thought  are  not  less  remarkable  than  his  bold  conception  of  color  effect. 
Very  probably  some  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites  have  the  gift  also;  I am  nearly 
certain  that  Rosetti  has  it,  ami  I think  also  Millais;  but  the  experiment  has 
yet  to  be  tried.  I wish  it  could  bg  made  in  Mr,  Hope’s  church  in  Margaret 
Street, 


I.  EARLY  KENAISSAXCE. 


27 

tation  of  various  woods  or  marbles,  the  subject  has  been  dis- 
cussed in  various  architectural  works,  and  is  evidently  becoming 
one  of  daily  increasing  interest.  When  it  is  considered  how 
many  persons  there  are  whose  means  of  livelihood  consist  alto- 
gether in  these  spurious  arts,  and  how  difficult  it  is,  even  for 
the  most  candid,  to  admit  a conviction  contrary  both  to  their 
interests  and  to  their  inveterate  habits  of  practice  and  thought, 
it  is  rather  a matter  of  wonder,  that  the  cause  of  Truth  should 
have  found  even  a few  maintainers,  than  that  it  should  have 
encountered  a host  of  adversaries.  It  has,  however,  been  de- 
fended repeatedly  by  architects  themselves,  and  so  successfully, 
that  I believe,  so  far  as  the  desirableness  of  this  or  that  method 
of  ornamentation  is  to  be  measured  by  the  fact  of  its  simple 
honesty  or  dishonesty,  there  is  little  need  to  add  anything  to 
what  has  been  already  urged  upon  the  subject.  But  there  are 
some  points  connected  with  the  practice  of  imitating  marble, 
which  I have  been  unable  to  touch  upon  until  now,  and  by  the 
consideration  of  which  we  may  be  enabled  to  see  something  of 
i\iQ  policy  of  honesty  in  this  matter,  without  in  the  least  aban- 
doning the  higher  ground  of  principle. 

§ XLi.  Consider,  then,  first,  wliat  marble  seems  to  have  been 
made  for.  Over  the  greater  part  of  the  surface  of  the  world, 
we  find  that  a rock  has  been  providentially  distributed,  in  a 
manner  particularly  pointing  it  out  as  intended  for  the  service  of 
man.  Not  altogether  a common  rock,  it  is  yet  rare  enough  to 
command  a certain  degree  of  interest  and  attention  wherever 
it  is  found ; but  not  so  rare  as  to  j)i’eclude  its  use  for  any  pur- 
pose to  which  it  is  fitted.  It  is  exactly  of  the  consistence 
which  is  best  adapted  for  sculpture  : that  is  to  say,  neither  hard 
nor  brittle,  nor  flaky  nor  splintery,  but  uniform,  and  delicately, 
yet  not  ignobly,  soft, — exactly  soft  enough  to  allow  the  sculj)- 
tor  to  work  it  without  force,  and  trace  on  it  the  finest  lines  of 
finished  form  ; and  yet  so  hard  as  never  to  betray  the  touch  or 
moulder  away  beneath  the  steel ; and  so  admirably  crystallized, 
and  of  such  permanent  elements,  that  no  rains  dissolve  it,  no 
time  changes  it,  no  atmosphere  decomposes  it : once  shaped,  it 
is  shaped  for  ever,  unless  subjected  to  actual  violence  or  attri- 


28 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


tion.  This  rock,  then,  is  prepared  by  Nature  for  the  scuipior 
and  architect,  just  as  paper  is  prepared  by  the  manufacturer 
for  the  artist,  with  as  great — nay,  with  greater — care,  and  more 
perfect  adaptation  of  the  material  to  the  requirements.  And 
of  this  marble  paper,  some  is  white  and  some  colored;  but 
more  is  colored  than  white,  because  the  white  is  evidently 
meant  for  sculpture,  and  the  colored  for  the  covering  of  large 
surfaces. 

§ xLii.  Now,  if  we  would  take  Nature  at  her  word,  and  use 
this  precious  paper  which  she  has  taken  so  much  care  to  pro- 
vide for  us  (it  is  a long  process,  the  making  of  that  paper ; the 
pulp  of  it  needing  the  subtlest  possible  solution,  and  the  press- 
ing of  it — for  it  is  all  hot-pressed — having  to  be  done  under 
the  saw,  or  under  something  at  least  as  heavy) ; if,  I say,  we  use 
it  as  Nature  would  have  us,  consider  what  advantages  would 
follow.  The  colors  of  marble  are  mingled  for  us  just  as  if  on 
a prepared  palette.  They  are  of  all  shades  and  hues  (except 
bad  ones),  some  being  united  and  even,  some  broken,  mixed, 
and  interrupted,  in  order  to  supply,  as  far  as  possible,  the  want 
of  the  painter^s  power  of  breaking  and  mingling  the  color  with 
the  brush.  But  there  is  more  in  the  colors  than  this  delicacy 
of  adaptation.  There  is  history  in  them.  By  the  manner  in 
which  they  are  arranged  in  every  piece  of  marble,  they  record 
the  means  by  which  that  marble  has  been  j>roduced,  and  the 
successive  changes  through  which  it  has  passed.  And  in  all 
their  veins  and  zones,  and  flame-like  stainings,  or  broken  and 
disconnected  lines,  they  write  various  legends,  never  untrue, 
of  the  former  political  state  of  the  mountain  kingdom  to  which 
they  belonged,  of  its  infirmities  and  fortitudes,  convulsions  and 
consolidations,  from  the  beginning  of  time. 

Now,  if  we  were  never  in  the  habit  of  seeing  anything  but 
real  marbles,  this  language  of  theirs  would  soon  begin  to  be 
understood  ; that  is  to  say,  even  the  least  observant  of  us 
would  recognize  such  and  such  stones  as  forming  a peculiar 
class,  and  would  begin  to  inquire  where  they  came  from,  and, 
at  last,  take  some  feeble  interest  in  the  main  question.  Why 
they  were  only  to  be  found  in  that  or  the  other  place,  and 


I.  EARLY  RENAISSANCE. 


29 


how  they  came  to  make  a part  of  this  mountain,  and  not  of 
that  ? And  in  a little  while,  it  would  not  be  possible  to  stand 
for  a moment  at  a shop  door,  leaning  against  the  pillars  of  it, 
without  remembering  or  questioning  of  something  well  worth 
the  memory  or  the  inquiry,  touching  the  hills  of  Italy,  or 
Greece,  or  Africa,  or  Spain ; and  we  should  be  led  on  from 
knowledge  to  knowledge,  until  even  the  unsculptured  walls  of 
our  streets  became  to  us  volumes  as  precious  as  those  of  our 
libraries. 

§ XLiir.  But  the  moment  we  admit  imitation  of  marble,  this 
source  of  knowledge  is  destroyed.  None  of  us  can  be  at  the 
pains  to  go  through  the  work  of  verification.  If  we  knew 
that  every  colored  stone  we  .'^aw  was  natural,  certain  ques- 
tions, conclusions,  interests,  would  force  themselves  upon  us 
without  any  effort  of  our  own  ; but  we  have  none  of  us  time 
to  stop  in  the  midst  of  our  daily  business,  to  touch  and  pore 
over,  and  decide  with  painful  minuteness  of  investigation, 
whether  such  and  such  a pillar  be  stucco  or  stone.  And  the 
whole  field  of  this  knowledge,  which  Nature  intended  us  to 
possess  when  we  were  children,  is  hopelessly  shut  out  from  us. 
Worse  than  shut  out,  for  the  mass  of  coarse  imitations  con- 
fuses our  knowledge  acquired  from  other  sources;  and  our 
memory  of  the  marbles  we  have  perhaps  once  or  twice  care- 
fully examined,  is  disturbed  and  distorted  by  the  inaccuracy 
of  the  imitations  which  are  brought  before  us  continually. 

§ XLiv.  But  it  will  be  said,  that  it  is  too  expensive  to  em- 
ploy real  marbles  in  ordinary  cases.  It  may  be  so : yet  not 
always  more  expensive  than  the  fitting  windows  with  enor- 
mous plate  glass,  and  decorating  them  with  elaborate  stucco 
mouldings  and  other  useless  soui'ces  of  expenditure  in  modern 
building ; nay,  not  always  in  the  end  more  expensive  than  the 
frequent  repainting  of  the  dingy  pillars,  which  a little  water 
dashed  against  them  would  refresh  from  day  to  day,  if  they 
were  of  true  stone.  But,  granting  that  it  be  so,  in  that  very 
costliness,  checking  their  common  use  in  certain  localities,  is 
(])art  of  the  interest  of  marbles,  considered  as  histoiy.  Where 
itliey  are  not  found.  Nature  has  supplied  other  materials, — clay 


30 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


for  brick,  or  forest  for  timber, — in  the  working  of  which  she 
intends  other  characters  of  the  human  mind  to  be  developed, 
and  by  the  proper  use  of  which  certain  local  advantages  will 
assuredly  be  attained,  while  the  delightfulness  and  meaning 
of  the  precious  marbles,  will  be  felt  more  forcibly  in  the  dis- 
tricts where  they  occur,  or  on  the  occasions  when  they  may  be 
procured. 

§ XLV.  It  can  hardly  be  necessary  to  add,  that,  as  the  imi- 
tation of  marbles  interferes  with  and  checks  the  knowledge  of 
geography  and  geology,  so  the  imitation  of  wood  interferes 
with  that  of  botany ; and  that  our  acquaintance  with  the 
nature,  uses,  and  manner  of  growth  of  the  timber  trees  of  our 
own  and  of  foreign  countries,  would  probably,  in  the  majority 
of  cases,  become  accurate  and  extensive,  without  any  labor  or 
sacrifice  of  time,  were  not  all  inquiry  checked,  and  all  obser- 
vation betrayed,  by  the  wretched  labors  of  the  Grainer.” 

§ xLvi.  But  this  is  not  all.  As  the  practice  of  imitation 
retards  knowledge,  so  also  it  retards  art. 

There  is  not  a meanei-  occupation  for  the  human  mind  than 
the  imitation  of  the  stains  and  striae  of  marble  and  wood. 
When  engaged  in  any  easy  and  simple  mechanical  occupation, 
there  is  still  some  liberty  for  the  mind  to  leave  the  literal 
Avork ; and  the  clash  of  the  loom  or  the  activity  of  the  fingers 
Avill  not  always  prevent  the  thoughts  from  some  happy  expati- 
ation  in  their  own  domains.  But  the  grainer  must  think  of 
Avhat  he  is  doing ; and  veritable  attention  and  care,  and  occar 
sionally  considerable  skill,  are  consumed  in  the  doing  of  a 
more  absolute  nothing  than  I can  name  in  any  other  depart- 
ment of  painful  idleness.  I knoAV  not  anything*  so  humiliat- 
ing as  to  see  a human  being,  with  arms  and  limbs  comjilete, 
and  apparently  a head,  and  assuredly  a soul,  yet  into  the  hands 
of  which  when  you  have  put  a brush  and  pallet,  it  cannot  do 
anything  with  them  but  imitate  a piece  of  wood.  It  cannot 
color,  it  has  no  ideas  of  color ; it  cannot  draw,  it  has  no  ideas 
of  form ; it  cannot  caricature,  it  has  no  ideas  of  humor.  It  is 
incapable  of  anything  beyond  knots.  All  its  achieA’^ement,  the 
entire  result  of  the  daily  application  of  its  imagination  and 


I.  EARLY  REKAISSAKCE. 


31 


iiiiinortality.  is  to  be  such  a piece  of  texture  as  the  sun  and 
dew  are  sucking  up  out  of  the  muddy  ground,  and  weaving 
together,  far  more  finely,  in  millions  of  millions  of  growing 
branches,  over  every  rood  of  waste  woodland  and  shady  hill. 

§ XLYii.  But  what  is  to  be  done,  the  reader  asks,  with  men 
who  are  capable  of  nothing  else  than  this  ? Nay,  they  may 
be  capable  of  everything  else,  for  all  we  know,  and  what  we 
are  to  do  with  them  I will  try  to  say  in  the  next  chapter ; but 
meanwhile  one  word  more  touching  the  higher  principles  of 
action  in  this  matter,  from  which  we  have  descended  to  those 
of  expediency.  I trust  that  some  day  the  language  of  Types 
will  be  more  read  and  understood  by  us  than  it  has  been  for 
centuries  ; and  when  this  language,  a better  one  than  eitlier 
Greek  or  Latin,  is  again  recognized  amongst  us,  w^e  shall  find, 
or  remember,  that  as  the  other  visible  elements  of  the  universe 
— its  air,  its  water,  and  its  flame — set  forth,  in  their  pure 
energies,  the  life-giving,  purifying,  and  sanctifying  influences 
of  the  Deity  upon  His  creatures,  so  the  earth,  in  its  purity, 
sets  forth  His  eternity  and  His  Truth.  I have  dwelt  above 
on  the  historical  language  of  stones;  let  us  not  forget  this, 
which  is  their  theological  language ; and,  as  we  would  not 
wantonly  pollute  the  fresh  waters  when  they  issue  forth  in 
their  clear  glory  from  the  rock,  nor  stay  tlie  mountain  winds 
into  pestilential  stagnancy,  nor  mock  the  sunbeams  with  arti- 
ficial and  ineffective  light ; so  let  us  not  by  our  own  base  and 
barren  falsehoods,  replace  the  crystalline  strength  and  burning 
color  of  the  earth  from  which  we  were  born,  and  to  which  we 
must  return  ; the  earth  which,  like  our  own  bodies,  though 
dust  in  its  degradation,  is  full  of  splendor  when  God’s  hand 
gathers  its  atoms ; and  which  was  for  ever  sanctified  by  Him, 
as  the  symbol  no  less  of  His  love  than  of  His  truth,  when  He 
bade  the  high  priest  bear  the  names  of  the  Children  of  Israel 
on  the  clear  stones  of  the  Breastplate  of  Judgment. 


CHAPTEE  II. 


ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 

§ I.  Of  all  tlie  buildings  in  Venice,  later  in  date  than  the 
final  additions  to  the  Ducal  Palace,  the  noblest  is,  beyond  all 
question,  that  which,  having  been  condemned  by  its  propri- 
etor, not  many  years  ago,  to  be  pulled  down  and  sold  for  the 
value  of  its  materials,  was  rescued  by  the  Austrian  govern-  , 
ment,  and  appropriated — the  government  officers  having  no 
other  use  for  it — to  the  business  of  the  Post-Office ; though  • 
still  known  to  the  gondolier  by  its  ancient  name,  the  Casa  ^ 
Grimani,  It  is  composed  of  three  stories  of  the  Corinthian  ^ 
order,  at  once  simple,  delicate,  and  sublime ; but  on  so  colossal 
a scale,  that  the  three-storied  palaces  on  its  right  and  left  only  i 
reach  to  the  cornice  which  marks  the  level  of  its  first  floor.  Yet  *| 
it  is  not  at  first  perceived  to  be  so  vast ; and  it  is  only  when  j 
some  expedient  is  employed  to  hide  it  from  the  eye,  that  by  ; 
the  sudden  dwarfing  of  the  whole  reach  of  the  Grand  Canal,  \ 
which  it  commands,  we  become  aware  that  it  is  to  the  majesty  | 
of  the  Casa  Grimani  that  the  Eialto  itself,  and  the  whole 
group  of  neighboring  buildings,  owe  the  greater  part  of  their 
impressiveness.  Yor  is  the  finish  of  its  details  less  notable  i 
than  the  grandeur  of  their  scale.  There  is  not  an  erring  line,  ; 
nor  a mistaken  proportion,  throughout  its  noble  front ; and 
the  exceeding  fineness  of  the  chiselling  gives  an  appearance  of  ^ 
lightness  to  the  vast  blocks  of  stone  out  of  whose  perfect  union 
that  front  is  composed.  The  decoration  is  sparing,  but  deli-  ^ 
cate : the  first  story  only  simpler  than  the  rest,  in  that  it  has 
pilasters  instead  of  shafts,  but  all  with  Corinthian  capitals,  rich 
in  leafage,  and  fruited  delicately ; the  rest  of  the  walls  flat  and  j 
smooth,  and  the  mouldings  sharp  and  shallow,  so  that  the  bold  . 


11.  ROMAX  REKAISSAKCE. 


33 


shafts  look  like  crystals  of  beryl  running  through  a rock  of 
quartz. 

, § II.  This  palace  is  the  principal  type  at  Yenice,  and  one  of 
the  best  in  Europe,  of  the  central  architecture  of  the  Renais- 
sance schools ; that  carefully  studied  and  perfectly  executed 
architecture  to  which  those  schools  owe  their  principal  claims 
to  our  respect,  and  wdiicli  became  the  model  of  most  of  the 
important  w^orks  subsequently  jn’oduced  by  civilized  nations. 
I have  called  it  the  Roman  Renaissance,  because  it  is  founded, 
both  in  its  principles  of  superimj)osition,  and  in  the  style  of 
its  ornament,  upon  the  architecture  of  classic  Rome  at  its  best 
period.  The  revival  of  Latin  literature  both  led  to  its  adop- 
tion, and  directed  its  form  ; and  the  most  important  example 
of  it  which  exists  is  the  modern  Roman  basilica  of  St.  Peter’s. 
It  had,  at  its  Renaissance  or  new  birth,  no  resemblance  either 
to  Greek,  Gothic,  or  Byzantine  forms,  except  in  retaining  the 
use  of  the  round  arch,  vault,  and  dome ; in  the  treatment  of 
all  details,  it  was  exclusively  Latin  ; the  last  links  of  connexion 
with  mediseval  tradition  having  been  broken  by  its  builders  in 
their  enthusiasm  for  classical  art,  and  the  forms  of  true  Greek 
or  Athenian  architecture  being  still  unknown  to  them.  The 
study  of  these  noble  Greek  forms  has  induced  various  modifi- 
cations of  the  Renaissance  in  our  own  times;  but  the  con- 
ditions which  are  found  most  applicable  to  the  uses  of  modern 
life  are  still  Roman,  and  the  entire  style  may  most  fitly  be 
expressed  by  the  term  Roman  Renaissance.” 

§ III.  It  is  this  style,  in  its  purity  and  fullest  form, — repre- 
sented by  such  buildings  as  the  Casa  Grimani  at  Venice  (built 
by  San  Micheli),  the  Town  Hall  at  Vicenza  (by  Palladio),  St. 
Peter’s  at  Rome  (by  Michael  Angelo),  St.  Paul’s  and  White- 
hall in  London  (by  Wren  and  Inigo  Jones), — wdiich  is  the  true 
antagonist  of  the  Gothic  school.  The  intermediate,  or  corrupt 
conditions  of  it,  though  multiplied  over  Europe,  are  no  longer 
admired  by  architects,  or  made  the  subjects  of  their  study; 
but  the  finished  work  of  this  central  school  is  still,  in  most 
cases,  the  model  set  before  the  student  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, as  opposed  to  those  Gothic,  Romanesque,  or  Byzantine 


34 


THIRD  PEIUOD. 


forms  which  liave  been  considered  barbarous,  and  are  so 
still  by  most  of  the  leading  men  of  the  day.  That  they  are, 
on  the  contrary,  most  noble  and  beautiful,  and  that  the  antag- 
onistic Renaissance  is,  in  the  main,  unworthy  and  unadmir- 
able,  whatever  perfection  of  a certain  kind  it  may  possess,  it 
was  my  principal  purpose  to  show,  when  I first  undertook  the 
labor  of  this  work.  It  lias  been  attempted  already  to  put 
before  the  reader  the  various  elements  which  unite  in  the 
Nature  of  Gothic,  and  to  enable  him  thus  to  judge,  not 
merely  of  the  beauty  of  the  forms  which  that  system  has 
produced  already,  but  of  its  future  applicability  to  the  wants 
of  mankind,  and  endless  power  over  their  hearts.  I would 
now  endeavor,  in  like  manner,  to  set  before  the  reader  the 
Nature  of  Renaissance,  and  thus  to  enable  him  to  compare  the 
two  styles  under  the  same  light,  and  with  the  same  enlarged 
view  of  their  relations  to  the  intellect,  and  capacities  for  the 
service,  of  man. 

§ IV.  It  will  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  enter  at  length  into 
any  examination  of  its  external  form.  It  uses,  whether  for  its 
roofs  of  aperture  or  roofs  proper,  the  low  gable  or  circular 
arch : but  it  differs  from  Romanesque  work  in  attaching  great 
importance  to  the  horizontal  lintel  or  architrave  above  the 
arch ; transferring  the  energy  of  the  principal  shafts  to  the 
supporting  of  this  horizontal  beam,  and  thus  rendering  the 
arch  a subordinate,  if  not  altogether  a superfiuous,  feature. 
The  type  of  this  arrangement  has  been  given  already  at  Fig. 
XXXVI.,  p.  145,  Yol.  I. : and  I might  insist  at  length  upon 
the  absurdity  of  a construction  in  which  the  shorter  shaft, 
which  has  the  real  weight  of  wall  to  carry,  is  split  into  two 
by  the  taller  one,  which  has  nothing  to  carry  at  all, — that 
taller  one  being  strengthened,  nevertheless,  as  if  the  whole 
weight  of  the  building  bore  upon  it ; and  on  the  ungraceful- 
ness, never  conquered  in  any  Palladian  work,  of  the  two  half- 
capitals glued,  as  it  were,  against  the  slippery  round  sides  of 
the  central  shaft.  But  it  is  not  the  form  of  this  architecture 
against  which  I would  plead.  Its  defects  are  shared  by  many 
of  the  noblest  forms  of  earlier  building,  and  might  have  been 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE.  H.  ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


35 


entirely  atoned  for  by  excellence  of  spirit.  But  it  is  the  moral 
nature  of  it  wliicli  is  corrupt,  and  which  it  must,  therefore,  he 
our  principal  business  to  examine  and  expose. 

§ V.  The  moral,  or  immoral,  elements  which  unite  to  form 
the  spirit  of  Central  Renaissance  architecture  are,  1 believe,  in 
the  main,  two, — Pride  and  Infidelity ; but  the  pride  resolves 
itself  into  three  main  branches, — Pride  of  Science,  Pride  of 
State,  and  Pride  of  System : and  thus  we  have  four  separate 
mental  conditions  which  must  be  examined  successively. 

§ VI.  1.  Pride  of  Science.  It  would  have  been  more 
charitable,  but  more  confusing,  to  have  added  another  element 
to  our  list,  namely  the  Love  of  Science ; but  the  love  is  in- 
cluded in  the  pride,  and  is  usually  so  very  subordinate  an  ele- 
ment that  it  does  not  deserve  equality  of  nomenclature.  But, 
whether  pursued  in  pride  or  in  affection  (how  far  by  either  we 
shall  see  presently),  the  first  notable  characteristic  of  the  Re- 
naissance central  school  is  its  introduction  of  accurate  knowl- 
edge into  all  its  work,  so  far  as  it  possesses  such  knowledge , 
and  its  evident  conviction,  that  such  science  is  necessary  to  the 
excellence  of  the  work,  and  is  the  first  thing  to  be  expressed 
therein.  So  that  all  the  forms  introduced,  even  in  its  minor 
ornament,  are  studied  with  the  utmost  care ; the  anatomy  of 
all  animal  structure  is  thoroughly  understood  and  elaborately 
expressed,  and  the  whole  of  the  execution  skilful  and  practised 
in  the  highest  degree.  Perspective,  linear  and  aerial,  perfect 
drawing  and  accurate  light  and  shade  in  painting,  and  true 
anatomy  in  all  representations  of  the  human  form,  drawn  or 
sculptured,  are  the  first  requirements  in  all  the  work  of  this 
school. 

§ VII.  Now,  first  considering  all  this  in  the  most  charitable 
light,  as  pursued  from  a real  love  of  truth,  and  not  from  vanity, 
it  would,  of  course,  have  been  all  excellent  and  admirable,  had 
it  been  regarded  as  the  aid  of  art,  and  not  as  its  essence.  But 
the  grand  mistake  of  the  Renaissance  schools  lay  in  supposing 
that  science  and  art  are  the  same  things,  and  that  to  advance 
*fn  the  one  was  necessarily  to  perfect  the  other.  Whereas  they 
are,  in  reality,  things  not  only  different,  but  so  opposed,  that 


THlTiT)  PEllTOT). 


I.  PRIDE  OE  SCIENCE. 


30 

to  advance  in  tlie  one  is,  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  the  hun- 
dred, to  retrograde  in  the  other.  This  is  the  point  to  which  I 
would  at  present  especially  bes23eak  the  reader’s  attention. 

§ VIII.  Science  and  art  are  commonly  distinguished  by  the 
nature  of  their  actions  ; the  one  as  knowing,  the  other  as  chang- 
ing, producing,  or  creating.  But  there  is  a still  more  important 
distinction  in  the  natui’e  of  tlie  tilings  they  deal  with.  Science 
deals  exclusively  with  things  as  they  are  in  themselves ; and 
art  exclusively  with  things  as  they  affect  the  human  senses  and 
human  soul.^  Her  work  is  to  portray  the  appearance  of  things, 
and  to  deepen  the  natural  impressions  which  they  produce 
upon  living  creatures.  The  work  of  science  is  to  substitute 
facts  for  appearances,  and  demonstrations  for  impressions. 
Both,  observe,  are  equally  concerned  with  truth ; the  one  with 
truth  of  aspect,  the  other  wdth  truth  of  essence.  Art  does  not 
represent  things  falsely,  but  truly  as  they  appear  to  mankind. 
Science  studies  the  relations  of  things  to  each  other : but  art 
studies  only  their  relations  to  man ; and  it  requires  of  every- 
thing which  is  submitted  to  it  impei’atively  this,  and  only  this, 
— what  that  thing  is  to  the  human  eyes  and  human  heart,  what 
it  has  to  say  to  men,  and  what  it  can  become  to  them  : a field 
of  question  just  as  much  vaster  than  that  of  science,  as  the  soul 
is  larger  than  the  material  creation. 

§ IX.  Take  a single  instance.  Science  informs  us  that  the 
sun  is  ninety-five  millions  of  miles  distant  from,  and  111  times 
broader  than,  the  earth ; that  w’^e  and  all  the  planets  revolve 
round  it ; and  that  it  revolves  on  its  own  axis  in  25  days,  11 
hours  and  4 minutes.  AVith  all  this,  art  has  nothing  whatso- 
ever to  do.  It  has  no  care  to  know  anything  of  this  kind. 
But  the  things  which  it  does  care  to  know,  are  these : that  in 
the  heavens  God  hath  set  a tabernacle  for  the  sun,  which  is 
as  a bridegroom  coming  out  of  his  chamber,  and  rejoiceth  as  a 

* Or,  more  briefly,  science  lias  to  do  with  facts,  art  with  phenomena. 
To  science,  phenomena  are  of  use  only  as  tliey  lead  to  facts;  and  to  art 
facts  are  of  use  only  as  they  lead  to  phenomena.  I use  the  word  “art”  here 
with  reference  to  the  fine  arts  only,  for  the  lower  arts  of  mechanical  pro 
duction  I should  reserve  the  word  “ manufacture.” 


"l.  PRIDE  OF  SCIEKCE.  H.  ROMAX  REN AISSAlv^CE. 


37 


strong  man  to  nin  a race.  His  going  forth  is  from  the  end  of 
the  heaven,  and  his  circuit  unto  the  ends  of  it,  and  there  is 
nothing  hid  from  the  heat  thereof.” 

§ X.  This,  then,  being  the  kind  of  truth  with  which  art  is 
exclusively  concerned,  how  is  such  truth  as  this  to  be  ascer- 
tained and  accumulated  ? Evidently,  and  only,  by  perception 
and  feeling.  Never  either  by  reasoning,  or  report.  Notliing 
must  come  between  Nature  and  the  artist’s  sight ; nothing  be- 
tween God  and  the  artist’s  soul.  Neither  calculation  nor  hear- 
say,— be  it  the  most  subtle  of  calculations,  or  the  wisest  of  say- 
ings,— may  be  allowed  to  come  between  the  universe,  and  the 
witness  wdiich  art  bears  to  its  visible  nature.  The  whole  value 
of  that  witness  depends  on  its  being  <?y^-witness ; the  whole 
genuineness,  acceptableness,  and  dominion  of  it  depend  on  the 
personal  assurance  of  the  man  who  utters  it.  All  its  victory 
depends  on  the  veracity  of  the  one  preceding  word,  Vidi.” 
The  whole  function  of  the  artist  in  the  world  is  to  be  a 
seeing  and  feeling  creature ; to  be  an  instrument  of  such  ten- 
derness and  sensitiveness,  that  no  shadow,  no  hue,  no  line,  no 
instantaneous  and  evanescent  expression  of  the  visible  things 
around  him,  nor  any  of  the  emotions  which  they  are  capable 
of  conveying  to  the  spirit  which  has  been  given  him,  shall 
either  be  left  unrecorded,  or  fade  from  the  book  of  record.  It 
is  not  his  business  either  to  think,  to  judge,  to  argue,  or  to 
know.  His  place  is  neither  in  the  closet,  nor  on  the  bench, 
nor  at  the  bar,  nor  in  the  library.  They  are  for  other  men 
and  other  woi*k.  He  may  think,  in  a by-way  ; reason,  now  and 
then,  when  he  has  nothing  better  to  do  ; know,  such  fragments 
of  knowledge  as  he  can  gather  without  stooping,  or  reach  with- 
out pains ; but  none  of  these  things  are  to  be  his  care.  The 
i work  of  his  life  is  to  be  two-fold  only  : to  see,  to  feel. 

§ XI.  Nay,  but,  the  reader  perhaps  pleads  with  me,  one  of 
the  great  uses  of  knowledge  is  to  open  the  eyes ; to  make 
I things  perceivable  which  never  would  have  been  seen,  unless 
• first  they  had  been  known. 

j Not  so.  This  could  only  be  said  or  believed  by  those  who 
ijdo  not  know  what  the  perceptive  faculty  of  a great  artist  is,  in 


I.  PRIDE  OP  SCIENCE. 


38  THIRD  PERIOD. 

comparison  with  that  of  other  men.  There  is  no  great  painter, 
no  great  workman  in  any  art,  but  he  sees  more  with  the  glance 
of  a moment  than  he  could  learn  by  the  labor  of  a thousand 
hours.  God  has  made  every  man  fit  for  his  work ; He  has 
given  to  the  man  whom  he  means  for  a student,  the  refiective, 
logical,  sequential  faculties  ; and  to  the  man  whom  He  means 
for  an  artist,  the  perceptive,  sensitive,  retentive  faculties.  And 
neither  of  these  men,  so  far  from  being  able  to  do  the  other’s 
work,  can  even  comprehend  the  way  in  which  it  is  done.  The 
student  has  no  understanding  of  the  vision,  nor  the  painter  of 
the  process ; but  chiefiy  the  student  has  no  idea  of  the  colossal 
grasp  of  the  true  painter’s  vision  and  sensibility. 

The  labor  of  the  whole  Geological  Society,  for  the  last  fifty 
years,  has  but  now  arrived  at  the  ascertainment  of  those  truths 
respecting  mountain  form  which  Turner  saw  and  expressed 
with  a few  strokes  of  a camel’s  hair  pencil  fifty  years  ago,  when 
he  was  a boy.  The.  knowledge  of  all  the  laws  of  the  planetary 
system,  and  of  all  the  curves  of  the  motion  of  projectiles,  would 
never  enable  the  man  of  science  to  draw  a waterfall  or  a wave ; 
and  all  the  members  of  Surgeons’  Hall  helping  each  other 
could  not  at  this  moment  see,  or  represent,  the  natural  move- 
ment of  a human  body  in  vigorous  action,  as  a poor  dyer’s  son 
did  two  hundred  years  ago.^' 

§ XII.  But  surely,  it  is  still  insisted,  granting  this  peculiar 
faculty  to  the  painter,  he  will  still  see  more  as  he  knows  more, 
and  the  more  knowledge  he  obtains,  therefore,  the  better.  No ; 
not  even  so.  It  is  indeed  true,  that,  here  and  there,  a piece  of 
knowledge  will  enable  the  eye  to  detect  a truth  which  might 
otherwise  have  escaped  it ; as,  for  instance,  in  watching  a sun- 
rise, the  knowledge  of  the  true  nature  of  the  orb  may  lead  the 
painter  to  feel  more  profoundly,  and  express  more  fully,  the 
distance  between  the  bars  of  cloud  that  cross  it,  and  the  sphere 
of  fiame  that  lifts  itself  slowly  beyond  them  into  the  infinite 
heaven.  But,  for  one  visible  truth  to  which  knowledge  thus 
opens  the  eyes,  it  seals  them  to  a thousand : that  is  to  say,  if 

*Tintoret. 


I.  I’KIDE  OF  SCIENCE.  II.  liOJIAX  REXAISSAXCE. 


39 


the  knowledge  occur  to  the  mind  so  as  to  occupy  its  powers  of 
contein23]ation  at  the  moment  when  the  sight  work  is  to  be 
done,  the  mind  retires  inward,  fixes  itself  upon  the  known  fact, 
and  forgets  the  passing  visible  ones ; and  a moment  of  such 
forgetfulness  loses  more  to  the  painter  than  a day’s  thought 
can  gain.  This  is  no  new  or  strange  assertion.  Every  person 
accustomed  to  careful  reflection  of  any  kind,  knows  that  its 
natural  opei’ation  is  to  close  his  eyes  to  the  external  world. 
While  he  is  thinking  deeply,  he  neither  sees  nor  feels,  even 
though  naturally  he  may  possess  strong  powers  of  sight  and 
emotion.  He  who,  having  journeyed  all  day  beside  the  Leman 
Lake,  asked  of  his  companions,  at  evening,  where  it  w^as,'^  prob- 
ably was  not  wanting  in  sensibility ; but  he  was  generally  a 
thinker,  not  a perceiver.  And  this  instance  is  only  an  extreme 
one  of  the  effect  which,  in  all  cases,  knowledge,  becoming  a 
subject  of  reflection,  produces  upon  the  sensitive  faculties.  It 
must  be  but  poor  and  lifeless  knowledge,  if  it  has  no  tendency 
to  force  itself  foi’ward,  and  become  ground  for  reflection,  in 
despite  of  the  succession  of  external  objects.  It  will  not  obey 
their  succession.  The  first  that  conies  gives  it  food  enough 
for  its  day’s  woi*k ; it  is  its  habit,  its  duty,  to  cast  the  rest  aside, 
and  fasten  upon  that.  The  first  thing  that  a thinking  and 
knowing  man  sees  in  the  course  of  the  day,  he  will  not  easily 
quit.  It  is  not  his  way  to  quit  anything  without  getting  to  the 
bottom  of  it,  if  possible.  But  the  artist  is  bound  to  receive  all 
tilings  on  the  broad,  white,  lucid  field  of  his  soul,  not  to  grasp 
at  one.  For  instance,  as  the  knowing  and  thinking  man 
watches  the  sunrise,  he  sees  something  in  the  color  of  a ray,  or 
the  change  of  a cloud,  that  is  new  to  him ; and  this  he  follows 
out  forthwith  into  a labyrinth  of  optical  and  pneumatical  laws, 
perceiving  no  more  clouds  nor  rays  all  the  morning.  But  the 
painter  must  catch  all  the  rays,  all  the  colors  that  come,  and  see 
them  all  truly,  all  in  their  real  relations  and  succession ; there- 
fore, everything  that  occupies  room  in  his  mind  he  must  cast 


*St.  Bernard. 


40 


THIKD  PERIOD. 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE. 


aside  for  the  time,  as  completely  as  may  be.  The  thoughtful 
man  is  gone  far  away  to  seek ; but  the  perceiving  man  must 
sit  still,  and  open  his  heart  to  receive.  The  thoughtful  man  is 
knitting  and  sharpening  himself  into  a two-edged  sword,  where- 
with to  pierce.  Tlie  perceiving  man  is  stretching  hiinself  into 
a four-cornered  sheet  wherewith  to  catch.  And  all  the  breadth 
to  which  he  can  expand  himself,  and  all  the  white  emptiness 
into  which  he  can  blanch  himself,  will  not  be  enough  to  receive 
what  God  has  to  give  him. 

§ XIII.  What,  then,  it  will  be  indignantly  asked,  is  an 
utterly  ignorant  and  unthinking  man  likely  to  make  the  best 
artist  ? No,  not  so  neither.  Knowledge  is  good  for  him  so 
long  as  he  can  keep  it  utterly,  servilely,  subordinate  to  his  own 
divine  work,  and  trample  it  under  his  feet,  and  out  of  his  waj^, 
the  moment  it  is  likely  to  entangle  him. 

And  in  this  respect,  observe,  there  is  an  enormous  differ^ 
ence  between  knowledge  and  education.  An  artist  need  not 
be  a learned  man,  in  all  probability  it  will  be  a disadvantage 
to  him  to  become  so;  but  he  ought,  if  possible,  always  to  be 
an  educated  man : that  is,  one  who  has  understanding  of  his 
own  uses  and  duties  in  the  world,  and  therefore  of  the  general 
nature  of  the  things  done  and  existing  in  the  world ; and  who 
has  so  trained  himself,  or  been  trained,  as  to  turn  to  the  best 
and  most  courteous  account  whatever  faculties  or  knowledge 
he  has.  The  mind  of  an  educated  man  is  greater  than  the 
knowledge  it  jiossesses ; it  is  like  the  vault  of  heaven,  encom- 
passing the  earth  which  lives  and  flourishes  beneath  it : but  the 
mind  of  an  educated  and  learned  man  is  like  a c^:outchouc  band, 
with  an  everlasting  spirit  of  contraction  in  it,  fastening  to- 
gether papers  which  it  cannot  open,  and  keeps  others  from 
opening. 

Half  our  artists  are  ruined  for  want  of  education,  and  by 
the  possession  of  knowledge ; the  best  that  I have  known  have 
been  educated,  and  illiterate.  The  ideal  of  an  artist,  however^ 
is  not  that  he  should  be  illiterate,  but  well  read  in  the  best 
books,  and  thoroughly  high  bred,  both  in  heart  and  in  bearing. 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE.  II.  ROMA^^  RENTAISSANCE. 


41 


In  a word,  he  should  be  lit  for  the  best  society,  and  should 
keep  out  of  it, 

§ XIV.  There  are,  indeed,  some  kinds  of  knowledge  with 
which  an  artist  ought  to  be  thoroughly  furnished ; those,  for 
instance,  which  enable  him  to  express  himself ; for  this  knowl- 
edge relieves  instead  of  encumbering  his  mind,  and  permits 
it  to  attend  to  its  purposes  instead  of  wearying  itself  about 
means.  The  whole  mystery  of  manipulation  and  manufacture 
should  be  familiar  to  the  painter  from  a child.  He  should 
know  the  chemistry  of  all  colors  and  materials  whatsoever,  and 
should  prepare  all  his  colors  himself,  in  a little  laboratory  of 
his  own.  Limiting  his  chemistry  to  this  one  object,  the 
amount  of  practical  science  necessary  for  it,  and  such  acci- 
dental discoveries  as  might  fall  in  his  way  in  the  course  of  his 
work,  of  better  colors  or  better  methods  of  preparing  them, 
would  be  an  infinite  refreshment  to  his  mind ; a minor  subject 
of  interest  to  which  it  might  turn  when  jaded  with  comfortless 
labor,  or  exhausted  with  feverish  invention,  and  yet  which 
vvmuld  never  intei’f ere  witli  its  higher  functions,  when  it  chose 
to  address  itself  to  them.  Even  a considerable  amount  of 
manual  labor,  sturdy  color-grinding  and  canvas-stretching, 
would  be  advantageous ; though  this  kind  of  work  ought  to 
be  in  great  part  done  by  pupils.  For  it  is  one  of  the  condi- 
tions of  perfect  knowledge  in  these  matters,  that  every  great 
master  should  have  a certain  number  of  pupils,  to  whom  he  is 
to  impart  all  the  knowledge  of  materials  and  means  which  he 
himself  possesses,  as  soon  as  possible ; , so  that,  at  any  rate,  by 
the  time  they  are  fifteen  years  old,  they  may  know  all  that  he 
knows  himself  in  this  kind ; that  is  to  say,  all  that  the  world 
of  artists  know,  and  his  own  discoveries  besides,  and  so  never 
be  troubled  about  methods  any  more.  Not  that  the  knowledge 
even  of  his  own  particular  methods  is  to  be  of  purpose  confined 

* Society  always  has  a destructive  influence  upon  an  artist : first  by  its 
sympathy  with  his  meanest  powers;  second]3^  by  its  chilling  want  of  under- 
standing of  his  greatest ; and,  thirdly,  by  its  vain  occupation  of  his  time 
and  thoughts.  Of  course  a painter  of  men  must  be  among  men;  but  it 
ought  to  be  as  a w’atchea*,  not  as  a companion. 


42 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE. 


to  himself  and  his  pupils,  but  that  necessarily  it  must  be  so  in 
some  degree ; for  only  those  who  see  him  at  work  daily  can 
understand  his  small  and  multitudinous  ways  of  practice. 
These  cannot  verbally  be  explained  to  everybody,  nor  is  it 
needful  that  they  should,  only  let  them  be  concealed  from  . 
nobody  who  cares  to  see  them ; in  which  case,  of  course,  his 
attendant  scholars  will  know  them  best.  But  all  that  can  be 
made  public  in  matters  of  this  kind  should  be  so  with  all  speed, 
every  artist  throwing  his  discovery  into  the  common  stock,  and 
the  whole  body  of  artists  taking  such  pains  in  this  department 
of  science  as  that  there  shall  be  no  unsettled  questions 
about  any  known  material  or  method  : that  it  shall  be  an 
entirely  ascertained  and  indisputable  matter  which  is  the  best 
white,  and  which  the  best  brown ; which  the  strongest  can- 
vas, and  safest  varnish ; and  which  the^  shortest  and  most  per- 
fect way  of  doing  everything  known  up  to  that  time : and  if 
any  one  discovers  a better,  he  is  to  make  it  public  forthwith. 
All  of  them  taking  care  to  embarrass  themselves  with  no  theo- 
ries or  reasons  for  anything,  but  to  work  empirically  only  : it 
not  being  in  any  wise  their  business  to  know  whether  light 
moves  in  rays  or  in  waves ; or  whether  the  blue  rays  of  the  , 
spectrum  jiiove  slower  or  faster  than  the  rest ; but  simply  to 
know  how  many  minutes  and  seconds  such  and  such  a powder 
must  be  calcined,  to  give  the  brightest  blue.  ; 

§ XV.  Now  it  is  perhaps  the  most  exquisite  absurdity  of  the  i 
whole  Renaissance  system,  that  while  it  has  encumbered  the  | 
artist  with  every  species  of  knowledge  that  is  of  no  use  to  him^  > 
this  one  precious  and  necessary  knowledge  it  has  utterly  lost.  ; 
There  is  not,  I believe,  at  this  moment,  a single  question  which 
could  be  put  respecting  pigments  and  methods,  on  which  the 
body  of  living  artists  would  agree  in  their  answers.  The  lives ^ 
of  artists  are  passed  in  fruitless  experiments;  fruitless,  because 
undirected  by  experience  and  uncommunicated  in  their  results.  ' 
Every  man  has  methods  of  his  own,  which  he  knows  to  be'; 
insufficient,  and  yet  jealously  conceals  from  his  fellow-work- 
men:  every  colorman  has  materials  of  his  own,  to  which  it  is 4 
rare  that  the  artist  can  trust : and  in  the  very  front  of  the  majes-g 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE.  II.  ROMAN^  RENAISSANCE. 


43 


tic  advance  of  chemical  science,  the  empirical  science  of  the 
artist  has  been  annihilated,  and  the  days  wliich  slionld  have  led 
us  to  higher  perfection  are  passed  in  guessing  at,  or  in  mourn- 
ing over,  lost  processes ; while  the  so-called  Dark  ages,  possess- 
ing no  moi’e  knowledge  of  chemistry  than  a village  herbalist 
does  now,  discovered,  established,  and  put  into  daily  practice 
such  methods  of  operation  as  have  made  their  work,  at  this 
day,  the  despair  of  all  who  look  upon  it. 

§ XVI.  And  yet  even  this,  to  the  painter,  the  safest  of 
sciences,  and  in  some  degree  necessary,  has  its  temptations, 
and  capabilities  of  abuse.  For  the  simplest  means  are  always 
enough  for  a great  man ; and  when  once  he  has  obtained  a few 
ordinary  colors,  which  he  is  sure  will  stand,  and  a white  sur- 
face that  will  not  darken,  nor  moulder,  nor  rend,  he  is  master 
of  the  world,  and  of  his  fellow-men.  And,  indeed,  as  if  in 
these  times  we  were  bent  on  furnishing  examples  of  every 
species  of  opposite  error,  while  we  have  suffered  the  traditions 
to  escape  us  of  the  simple  methods  of  doing  simple  things, 
which  are  enough  for  all  the  arts,  and  to  all  the  ages,  we  have 
set  ourselves  to  discover  fantastic  modes  of  doing  fantastic 
things, — new  mixtures  and  manipulations  of  metal,  and  porce- 
lain, and  leather,  and  paper,  and  every  conceivable  condition 
of  false  substance  and  cheap  work,  to  our  own  infinitely  mul- 
tiplied confusion, — blinding  ourselves  daily  more  and  more  to 
the  great,  changeless,  and  inevitable  truth,  that  there  is  but 
one  goodness  in  art ; and  that  is  one  which  the  chemist  cannot 
prepare,  nor  the  merchant  cheapen,  for  it  comes  only  of  a rare 
human  hand,  and  rare  human  soul. 

§ XVII.  Within  its  due  limits,  however,  here  is  one  branch 
of  science  which  the  artist  may  pursue ; and,  within  limits  still 
more  strict,  another  also,  namely,  the  science  of  the  appear- 
ances of  things  as  they  have  been  ascertained  and  registered 
by  his  fellow-men.  For  no  day  passes  but  some  visible  fact  is 
pointed  out  to  us  by  others,  which,  without  their  help,  we 
should  not  have  noticed ; and  the  accumulation  and  generali- 
zation of  visible  facts  have  formed,  in  the  succession  of  ages, 
the  sciences  of  light  and  shade,  and  perspective,  linear  aiul 


44 


THIliD  PERIOD. 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE. 


aerial : so  tliat  the  artist  is  now  at  once  put  in  possession  of 
certain  truths  respecting  the  appearances  of  things,  which,  so 
pointed  out  to  him,  any  man  may  in  a few  days  understand 
and  acknowledge;  but  which,  without  aid,  lie  could  not  prob- 
ably discover  in  his  lifetime.  I say,  probably  could  not,  be- 
cause the  time  which  tlie  history  of  art  shows  us  to  have  been 
actually  occupied  in  the  discovery  and  systematization  of  such 
truth,  is  no  measure  of  the  time  necessary  for  such  discovery. 
The  lengthened  period  which  elapsed  between  the  earliest  and 
the  perfect  developement  of  the  science  of  light  (if  I may  so 
call  it)  was  not  occupied  in  the  actual  effort  to  ascertain  its 
laws,  but  in  acquiring  the  disposition  to  make  that  effort.  It 
did  not  take  five  centuries  to  find  out  the  appearance  of  natural 
objects;  but  it  took  five  centuries  to  make  people  care  about 
representing  them.  An  artist  of  the  twelfth  century  did  not 
desire  to  represent  nature.  His  work  was  symbolical  and 
ornamental.  So  long  as  it  was  intelligible  and  lovely,  he  had 
no  care  to  make  it  like  nature.  As,  for  instance,  when  an  old 
painter  represented  the  glory  round  a saint’s  head  by  a bur- 
nished plate  of  pure  gold,  he  had  no  intention  of  imitating  an 
effect  of  light.  He  meant  to  tell  the  spectator  that  the  figure 
so  decorated  was  a saint,  and  to  produce  splendor  of  effect  by 
the  golden  circle.  It  was  no  matter  to  him  what  light  was 
like.  So  soon  as  it  entered  into  his  intention  to  represent  the 
appearance  of  light,  he  w^as  not  long  in  discovering  the  natural  ■ 
facts  necessary  for  his  purpose. 

§ XVIII.  But,  this  being  fully  allowed,  it  is  still  true  that 
the  accumulation  of  facts  now  known  respecting  visible  phe-  j 
nomena,  is  greater  than  any  man  could  lio]3e  to  gather  for  him-  j 
self,  and  that  it  is  well  for  him  to  be  made  acquainted  with  i 
them ; provided  always,  tliat  he  receive  them  only  at  their  ) 
true  value,  and  do  not  suffer  himself  to  be  misled  by  them.  I i 
say,  at  their  true  value ; that  is,  an  exceedingly  small  one.  All  | 
the  information  which  men  can  receive  from  the  accumulated  , 
experience  of  others,  is  of  no  use  but  to  enable  them  more  , 
quickly  and  accurately  to  see  for  themselves.  It  will  in  no  ; 
wise  take  the  place  of  this  jiersonal  siglit.  JS^othing  can  be  , 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE.  II.  KOMAN^  RE]S'xiISSAN'CE. 


45 


done  well  in  art,  except  by  vision.  Scientific  principles  and 
experiences  are  helps  to  tlie  eye,  as  a microscope  is ; and  they 
are  of  exactly  as  mucli  use  without  the  eye.  No  science  of 
perspective,  or  of  anything  else,  will  enable  ns  to  draw  the 
simplest  natural  line  accurately,  unless  we  see  it  and  feel  it. 
Science  is  soon  at  her  wits’  end.  All  the  professors  of  per- 
spective in  Europe,  could  not,  by  perspective,  draw  the  line  of 
curve  of  a sea  beach ; nay,  could  not  outline  one  pool  'of  the 
cpiiet  water  left  among  the  sand.  The  eye  and  hand  can  do  it, 
nothing  else.  All  the  rules  of  aerial  perspective  that  ever 
were  written,  will  not  tell  me  how  sharply  the  pines  on  the  hill- 
top are  drawn  at  this  moment  on  the  sky.  I shall  know  if  I 
see  them,  and  love  them ; not  till  then.  I may  study  the  laws 
of  atmospheric  gradation  for  fourscore  years  and  ten,  and  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  draw  so  much  as  a brick-kiln  through  its 
own  smoke,  unless  I look  at  it ; and  that  in  an  entirely  humble 
and  unscientific  manner,  ready  to  see  all  that  the  smoke,  my 
master,  is  ready  to  show  me,  and  expecting  to  see  nothing 
more. 

§ XIX.  So  that  all  the  knowledge  a man  has  must  be  held 
cheap,  and  neither  trusted  nor  respected,  the  moment  he  comes 
face  to  face  with  Nature.  If  it  lielp  him,  well ; if  not,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  thrust  itself  upon  him  in  an  impertinent  and  con- 
tradictory temper,  and  venture  to  set  itself  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree in  opposition  to,  or  comparison  with,  his  sight,  let  it  be 
disgraced  forthwith.  And  the  slave  is  less  likely  to  take  too 
much  upon  herself,  if  she  has  not  been  bought  for  a higli 
price.  All  the  knowledge  an  artist  needs,  will,  in  these  days, 
come  to  him  almost  without  his  seeking ; if  he  has  far  to  look 
for  it,  he  may  be  sure  he  does  not  want  it.  Front  became 
Prout,  without  knowing  a single  rule  of  perspective  to  the  end 
of  his  days;  and  all  the  perspective  in  the  Encyclopaedia  will 
never  j^roduce  us  another  Prout. 

§ XX.  And  observe,  also,  knowledge  is  not  only  very  often 
unnecessary,  but  it  is  often  untrustworthy.  It  is  inaccurate, 
and  betrays  us  where  the  eye  would  have  been  true  to  us.  Let 
us  take  the  single  instance  of  the  knowledge  of  aerial  perspec- 


46 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE. 


tive,  of  which  the  moderns  are  so  proud,  and  see  how  it  betrays 
us  in  various  ways.  First  by  the  conceit  of  it,  which  often 
jireveiits  our  enjoying  work  in  which  higher  and  better  things 
were  thouglit  of  than  effects  of  mist.  Tlie  other  day  I showed 
a fine  impression  of  Albert  Durer’s  “ St.  Hubert  ’’  to  a modern 
engraver,  who  had  never  seen  it  nor  any  other  of  Albert 
Durer’s  works.  He  looked  at  it  for  a minute  contemptuously, 
then  turned  away:  Ah,  I see  that  man  did  not  know  much 

about  aerial  perspective  All  the  glorious  work  and  thought 
of  the  nrighty  master,  all  the  redundant  landscape,  the  living 
vegetation,  the  magnificent  truth  of  line,  w^ere  dead  letters  to 
him,  because  he  haiipened  to  have  been  taught  one  particular 
piece  of  knowledge  wliich  Durer  despised. 

§ XXI.  But  not  only  in  the  conceit  of  it,  but  in  the  inaccu- 
racy of  it,  this  science  betrays  us.  Aerial  perspective,  as  given 
by  the  modern  artist,  is,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  a gross  and 
ridiculous  exaggeration,  as  is  demonstrable  in  a moment.  The 
effect  of  air  in  altering  the  hue  and  depth  of  color  is  of  course 
great  in  the  exact  proportion  of  the  volume  of  air  between  the 
observer  and  the  object.  It  is  not  violent  within  the  first  few 
yards,  and  then  diminished  gradually,  but  it  is  equal  for  each 
foot  of  interposing  air.  Now  in  a clear  day,  and  clear  climate, 
such  as  that  generally  presupposed  in  a work  of  fine  color,  ob- 
jects are  completely  visible  at  a distance  of  ten  miles ; visible 
in  light  and  shade,  with  gradations  between  the  two.  Take, 
then,  the  faintest  possible  hue  of  shadow,  or  of  any  color,  and 
the  most  violent  and  positive  possible,  and  set  them  side  by 
side.  The  interval  between  them  is  greater  than  the  real  dif- 
ference (for  objects  may  often  be  seen  clearly  much  farther 
than  ten  miles,  I have  seen  Mont  Blanc  at  120)  caused  by  the 
ten  miles  of  intervening  air  between  any  given  hue  of  the 
nearest,  and  most  distant,  objects;  but  let  us  assume  it,  in 
courtesy  to  the  masters  of  aerial  perspective,  to  be  the  real  dif- 
ference. Then  roughly  estimating  a mile  at  less  than  it  really 
is,  also  in  courtesy  to  them,  or  at  5000  feet,  we  have  this  differ- 
ence between  tints  produced  by  50,000  feet  of  air.  Then,  ten 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCli:.  H.  KOMAX  KENAISSAKCE. 


4? 


feet  of  air  will  produce  the  5000th  2)art  of  this  difference.  Let 
the  reader  take  the  two  extreme  tints,  and  carefully  gradate 
the  one  into  the  other.  Let  him  divide  this  gradated  shadow 
or  color  into  5000  successive  j>arts ; and  the  difference  in  depth 
between  one  of  these  parts  and^the  next  is  the  exact  amount  of 
aerial  persp)ective  between  one  object,  and  another,  ten  feet 
behind  it,  on  a clear  day. 

§ XXII.  Now,  in  Millais’  Huguenot,”  the  figures  were 
standing  about  three  feet  from  the  wall  behind  them ; and  the 
wise  world  of  critics,  wdiich  could  find  no  other  fault  with  the 
picture,  professed  to  have  its  eyes  hurt  by  the  want  of  an  aerial 
perspective,  which,  had  it  been  accurately  given  (as,  indeed,  I 
believe  it  was),  would  have  amounted  to  the  ^^-5000th,  or  less 
than  the  15,000th  part  of  the  depth  of  any  given  color.  It 
would  be  interesting  to  see  a picture  painted  by  the  critics, 
upon  this  scientific  j^rinciple.  The  aerial  perspective  usually 
represented  is  entirely  conventional  and  ridiculous ; a mere 
struggle  on  the  part  of  the  pretendedly  well-informed,  but 
really  ignorant,  artist,  to  express  distances  by  mist  which  he 
cannot  by  drawing. 

It  is  curious  that  the  critical  world  is  just  as  much  offended 
by  the  true  presence  of  aerial  perspective,  over  distances  of 
fifty  miles,  and  with  definite  purpose  of  representing  mist,  in 
the  works  of  Turner,  as  by  the  true  absence  of  aerial  perspec- 
tive, over  distances  of  three  feet,  and  in  clear  weather,  in  those 
of  Millais. 

§ XXIII.  Well  but,”  still  answers  the  reader,  ^‘this  kind  of 
error  may  here  and  there  be  occasioned  by  too  much  respect 
for  undigested  knowledge;  but,  on  the  wdiole,  the  gain  is 
greater  than  the  loss,  and  the  fact  is,  that  a j)icture  of  the  Re- 
naissance period,  or  by  a modern  master,  does  indeed  represent 
nature  more  faithfully  than  one  wrought  in  the  ignorance  of 
old  times.”  No,  not  one  whit ; for  the  most  part  less  faithfully. 
Indeed,  the  outside  of  nature  is  more  truly  drawn  ; the  material 
commonplace,  which  can  be  systematized,  catalogued,  and 


48 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


I.  PRIDE  OF  science 


tanglit  to  all  pains-taking  mankind, — forms  of  ribs  and  sca- 
pulae,of  eyebrows  and  lips,  and  curls  of  haii\  AVhatever  can  be 
measured  and  handled,  dissected  and  demonstrated, — in  a word, 
whatever  is  of  the  body  only, — that  the  schools  of  knowledge 
do  resolutely  and  courageously -possess  themselves  of,  and  por- 
tray. But  whatever  is  immeasurable,  intangible,  indivisible^ 
and  of  the  spirit,  that  the  schools  of  knowledge  do  as  certainly 
lose,  and  blot  out  of  their  sight,  that  is  to  say,  all  that  is  worth 
art’s  possessing  or  recording  at  all ; for  whatever  can  be  arrest- 
ed, measured,  and  systematized,  we  can  contemplate  as  much 
as  we  will  in  nature  herself.  But  what  we  want  art  to  do  for 
us  is  to  stay  what  is  fleeting,  and  to  enlighten  what  is  incom- 
prehensible, to  incorjDorate  the  things  that  have  no  measure, 
and  immortalize  the  things  that  have  no  duration.  The  dimly 
seen,  momentary  glance,  the  flitting  shadow  of  faint  emotion, 
the  imperfect  lines  of  fading  thought,  and  all  that  by  and 
through  such  things  as  these  is  recorded  on  the  features  of 

* I intended  in  this  place  to  have  introduced  some  special  consideration 
of  the  science  of  anatomy,  which  I believe  to  have  been  in  great  part  the 
cause  of  the  decline  of  modern  art;  but  I have' been  anticipated  by  a writer 
better  able  to  treat  the  subject.  I have  only  glanced  at  his  book;  and  there 
is  something  in  the  spirit  of  it  which  I do  not  like,  and  some  parts  of  it  are 
assuredly  wrong;  but,  respecting  anatomy,  it  seems  to  me  to  settle  the  ques- 
tion indisputably,  more  especially  as  being  written  by  a master  of  the  science. 
I quote  two  passages,  and  must  refer  the  reader  to  the  sequel. 

‘ ‘ The  scientific  men  of  forty  centuries  have  failed  to  describe  so  accurately, 
so  beautifully,  so  artistically,  as  Homer  did,  the  organic  elements  constitut- 
ing the  emblems  of  youth  and  beauty,  and  the  waste  and  decay  which  these 
sustain  by  time  and  age.  All  these  Homer  understood  better,  and  has  de- 
scribed more  truthfully  than  the  scientific  men  of  forty  centuries.  . . . 

'‘Before  I approach  this  question,  permit  me  to  make  a few  remarks  on 
the  pre-historic  period  of  Greece;  that  era  which  seems  to  have  produced 
nearly  all  the  great  men. 

“ On  looking  attentively  at  the  statues  within  my  observation,  I cannot 
find  the  slightest  foundation  for  the  assertion  that  their  sculptors  must  have 
dissected  the  human  frame  and  been  well  acquainted  with  the  human  ana- 
tomy. They,  like  Homer,  had  discovered  Nature’s  secret,  and  bestowed 
their  whole  attention  on  the  exterior.  The  exterior  they  read  profoundly, 
and  studied  deeply — the  living  exterior  the  dead.  Above  all,  they  avoided 

displaying  the  dead  and  dissected  interior,  through  the  exterior.  They  had 


r.  PlUDE  OF  SCIENCE.  II.  EOltAK  EEXAISSANCE. 


49 


man,  and  all  tliat  in  niairs  person  and  actions,  and  in  the  great 
natural  world,  is  infinite  and  wonderful ; having  in  it  that 
spirit  and  power  which  man  may  witness,  but  not  weigh ; con- 
ceive, but  not  comprehend  ; love,  but  not  limit ; and  imagine, 
but  not  define  this,  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  the  aim  of 
all  noble  art,  we  have,  in  the  ancient  art,  by  perception ; and 
we  have  not^  in  the  newer  art,  by  knowledge.  Giotto  gives  it 
us,  Orcagna  gives  it  us.  Angelico,  Memmi,  Pisano,  it  matters 
not  who, — all  simple  and  unlearned  men,  in  their  measure  and 
manner, — give  it  us ; and  the  learned  men  that  followed  them 
give  it  us  not,  and  we,  in  our  supreme  learning,  own  ourselves 
at  this  day  farther  from  it  than  ever. 

g XXIV.  ^^Nay,’’  but  it  is  still  answered,  ^^this  is  because 
we  have  not  yet  brought  our  knowledge  into  right  use,  but 
have  been  seeking  to  accumulate  it,  rather  than  to  apply  it 
wisely  to  the  ends  of  art.  Let  us  now  do  this,  and  we  may 
achieve  all  that  was  done  by  that  elder  ignorant  art,  and  infi- 

discovered  that  the  interior  presents  hideous  shapes,  but  not  forms.  Men 
during  the  philosophic  era  of  Greece  saw  all  this,  each  reading  the  antique 
to  the  best  of  his  abilities.  The  man  of  genius  rediscovered  the  canon  of 
the  ancient  masters,  and  wrought  on  its  principles.  The  greater  number, 
as  now,  unequal  to  this  step,  merely  imitated  and  copied  those  who  pre- 
ceded them.” — Great  Artists  and  Great  Anatomists.  By  R.  Knox,  M.D. 
London,  Van  Voorst,  1852. 

Respecting  the  value  of  literary  knowledge  in  general  as  regards  art,  the 
reader  will  also  do  well  to  meditate  on  the  following  sentences  from 
Hallam’s  “Literature  of  Europe;”  remembering  at  the  same  time  what  I 
have  above  said,  that  “the  foot  of  all  great  art  in  Europe  is  struck  in  the 
thirteenth  century,”  and  that  the  great  time  is  from  1250  to  1B50: 

“In  Germany  the  tenth  century,  Leibnitz  declares,  was  a golden  age  of 
learning  compared  with  the  thirteenth.  ” 

“The  writers  of  the  thirteenth  century  display  ah  incredible  ignorance, 
not  only  of  pure  idiom,  but  of  common  grammatical  rules.” 

The  fourteenth  century  was  “ not  superior  to  the  thirteenth  in  learning. 

. . . We  may  justly  praise  Richard  of  Bury  for  his  zeal  in  collecting 

books.  But  his  erudition  appears  crude,  his  style  indifferent,  and  his 
thoughts  superficial.” 

I doubt  the  superficialness  of  the  thoughts : at  all  events,  thi^  is  not  a 
character  of  the  time,  though  it  may  be  of  the  writer;  for  this  would  affect 
art  more  even  than  literature. 


50 


THIRU  PERIOD. 


1.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE. 


)utely  more.”  No,  not  so ; for  as  soon  as  we  try  to  put  our 
knowledge  to  good  use,  we  shall  And  that  we  have  much  more 
than  we  can  use,  and  that  what  more  we  have  is  an  encum- 
brance. All  our  errors  in  this  respect  arise  from  a gross  mis- 
conception as  to  the  true  nature  of  knowledge  itself.  We 
talk  of  learned  and  ignorant  men,  as  if  there  were  a certain 
quantity  of  knowledge,  which  to  possess  was  to  be  learned,  and 
which  not  to  possess  was  to  he  ignorant ; instead  of  consider- 
ing that  knowledge  is  infinite,  and  that  the  man  most  learned 
in  human  estimation  is  just  as  far  from  knowing  anything  as 
he  ought  to  know  it,  as  the  unlettered  peasant.  Men  are 
merely  on  a lower  or  higher  stage  of  an  eminence,  whose  sum- 
mit is  God’s  throne,  infinitely  above  all ; and  there  is  just  as 
much  reason  for  the  wisest  as  for  the  simplest  man  being 
discontented  with  his  position,  as  respects  the  real  quantity 
of  knowledge  he  possesses.  And,  for  both  of  them,  the  only 
true  reasons  for  contentment  with  the  sum  of  knowledge  they 
possess  are  these : that  it  is  the  kind  of  knowledge  they  need 
for  their  duty  and  happiness  in  life ; that  all  they  have  is 
tested  and  certain,  so  far  as  it  is  in  their  power ; that  all  they 
have  is  well  in  order,  and  within  reach  when  they  need  it ; 
that  it  has  not  cost  too  much  time  in  the  getting  ; that  none 
of  it,  once  got,  has  been  lost ; and  that  there  is  not  too  much 
to  be  easily  taken  care  of. 

§ XXV.  Consider  these  requirements  a little,  and  the  evils 
that  result  in  our  education  and  polity  from  neglecting  them. 
Knowledge  is  mental  food,  and  is  exactly  to  the  spirit  what 
food  is  to  the  body  (except  that  the  spirit  needs  several  sorts 
of  food,  of  which  knowledge  is  only  one),  and  it  is  liable  to  the 
same  kind  of  misuses.  It  may  be  mixed  and  disguised  by  art, 
till  it  becomes  unwholesome ; it  may  be  refined,  sweetened, 
and  made  palatable,  until  it  has  lost  all  its  power  of  nourish- 
ment ; and,  even  of  its  best  kind,  it  maybe  eaten  to  surfeiting, 
and  minister  to  disease  and  death. 

§ XXVI.  Therefore,  with  ]*espect  to  knowledge,  we  are  to 
reason  and  act  exactly  as  with  respect  to  food.  We  no  more 
live  to  know,  than  we  live  to  eat.  We  live  to  contemplate, 


I.  riUDE  OP  SCIEKCE.  H.  liOMAK  UEXAISSAKOE. 


51 


enjoy,-  r.ct,  adore ; and  we  may  know  all  that  is  to  be  known 
in  this  world,  and  wdiat  Satan  knows  in  the  other,  without 
being  able  to  do  any  of  these.  We  are  to  ask,  therefore,  first, 
is  tlie  knowledge  w^e  would  have  fit  food  for  us,  good  and 
simple,  not  artificial  and  decorated  ? and  secondly,  how  much 
of  it  will  enable  us  best  for  our  work ; and  will  leave  our 
hearts  light,  and  our  eyes  clear?  For  no  more  than  that  is 
to  be  eaten  without  the  old  Eve-sin. 

§ XXVII.  Observe,  also,  the  difference  between  tasting  knowl- 
edge, and  hoarding  it.  In  this  respect  it  is  also  like  food ; 
since,  in  some  measure,  the  knowledge  of  all  men  is  laid  up  in 
granaries,  for  future  use  ; much  of  it  is  at  any  given  moment 
dormant,  not  fed  upon  or  enjoyed,  but  in  store.  And  by  all 
it  is  to  be  remembered,  that  knowledge  in  this  form  may  be 
kept  without  air  till  it  rots,  or  in  such  unthreshed  disoi’der  that 
it  is  of  no  use ; and  that,  however  good  or  orderly,  it  is  still 
only  in  being  tasted  that  it  becomes  of  use ; and  that  men 
may  easily  starve  in  their  own  granaries,  men  of  science,  per- 
haps, most  of  all,  for  they  are  likely  to  seek  accumulation  of 
their  store,  rather  than  nourishment  from  it.  Yet  let  it  not 
be  thought  that  I would  undervalue  them.  The  good  and 
great  among  them  are  like  Joseph,  to  whom  all  nations  sought 
to  buy  corn ; or  like  the  sowei’  going  forth  to  sow  beside  all 
waters,  sending  forth  thither  the  feet  of  the  ox  and  the  ass : 
only  let  us  remember  that  this  is  not  all  men’s  work.  We  are 
not  intended  to  be  all  keepers  of  granaries,  nor  all  to  be  meas- 
ured by  the  filling  of  a storehouse ; but  many,  nay,  most  of 
us,  are  to  receive  day  by  day  our  daily  bread,  and  shall  be 
as  w^ell  nourished  and  as  fit  for  our  labor,  and  often,  also,  fit 
for  nobler  and  more  divine  labor,  in  feeding  from  the  barrel 
of  meal  that  does  not  waste,  and  from  the  cruse  of  oil  that 
does  not  fail,  than  if  our  barns  were  filled  wdth  plenty,  and  our 
presses  bursting  out  with  new  wine. 

§ XXVIII.  It  is  for  each  man  to  find  his  own  measure  in  this 
matter ; in  great  part,  also,  for  others  to  find  it  for  him,  while 
he  is  yet  a youth.  And  the  desperate  evil  of  the  wdiole  Re- 
naissance system  is,  that  all  idea  of  measure  is  therein  forgot- 


U-  OF  ILL  LIB. 


52 


-THIRD  PERIOD. 


I.  PRIDE  OP  SCIENCE 


ten,  tliat  knowledge  is  tlioiight  the  one  and  the  only  good, 
and  it  is  never  inquired  whether  men  are  vivified  by  it  or 
paralyzed.  Let  us  leave  figures.  The  reader  may  not  believe 
the  analogy  I have  been  pressing  so  far ; but  let  him  consider 
the  subject  in  itself,  let  him  examine  the  effect  of  knowledge 
in  his  own  heart,  and  see  whether  the  trees  of  knowledge  and 
of  life  are  one  now,  Rny  more  than  in  Paradise.  He  must  feel 
that  the  real  animating  power  of  knowledge  is  only  in  the 
moment  of  its  being  first  received,  when  it  fills  us  with  worn 
der  and  joy ; a joy  for  which,  observe,  the  previous  ignorance 
is  just  as  necessary  as  the  present  knowledge.  That  man  is 
always  happy  who  is  in  the  presence  of  something  which  he 
cannot  know  to  the  full,  which  he  is  always  going  on  to  know. 
This  is  the  necessary  condition  of  a finite  creature  with 
divinely  rooted  and  divinely  directed  intelligence  ; this,  there- 
fore, its  happy  state, — but  observe,  a state,  not  of  triumph  or 
joy  in  what  it  knows,  but  of  joy  rather  in  the  continual  dis 
CO  very  of  new  ignorance,  continual  self-abasement,  continual 
astonishment.  Once  thoroughly  our  own,  the  knowledge 
ceases  to  give  us  pleasure.  It  may  be  practically  useful  to  us, 
it  may  be  good  for  others,  or  good  for  usury  to  obtain  more ; 
but,  in  itself,  once  let  it  be  thoroughly  familiar,  and  it  is  dead. 
The  wonder  is  gone  from  it,  and  all  the  fine  color  which  it  had 
when  first  we  drew  it  up  out  of  the  infinite  sea.  And  what 
does  it  matter  how  much  or  how  little  of  it  we  have  laid  aside, 
when  our  only  enjoyment  is  still  in  the  casting  of  that  deej) 
sea  line?  What  does  it  matter?  Nay,  in  one  respect,  it 
matters  much,  and  not  to  our  advantage.  For  one  effect  of 
knowledge  is  to  deaden  the  force  of  the  imagination  and  the 
original  energy  of  the  whole  man:  under  the  weight  of  his 
knowledge  he  cannot  move  so  lightly  as  in  the  days  of  his 
simplicity.  The  pack-horse  is  furnished  for  the  journey,  the 
war-horse  is  armed  for  war  ; but  the  freedom  of  the  field  and 
the  lightness  of  the  limb  are  lost  for  both.  Knowledge  is,  at 
best,  the  pilgrim’s  burden  or  the  soldier’s  panoply,  often  a 
weariness  to  them  both:  and  the  Eenaissance  knowledge  is 
like  the  Renaissance  armor  of  iilate,  binding  and  cramping  the 


T.  PIUBE  OF  SCIKKCE.  H.  liOMAN  REKAISSANCE. 


53 

liaman  form;  while  ail  good  knowledge  is  like  the  cnn 
sader’s  chain  mail,  which  throws  itself  into  folds  with  the  body, 
yet  it  is  rarely  so  forged  as  that  the  clasps  and  rivets  do  not 
gall  us.  All  men  feel  this,  though  they  do  not  think  of  it, 
nor  reason  out  its  consequences.  They  look  back  to  the  days 
of  childhood  as  of  greatest  happiness,  because  those  were  the 
days  of  greatest  wonder,  greatest  simplicity,  and  most  vigor- 
ous imagination.  And  the  whole  difference  between  a man  of 
genius  and  other  men,  it  has  been  said  a thousand  times,  and 
most  truly,  is  that  tlie  first  remains  in  great  part  a child,  see- 
ing with  the  large  eyes  of  children,  in  perpetual  wonder,  not 
conscious  of  much  knowledge, — conscious,  rather,  of  infinite 
ignorance,  and  yet  infinite  j^ower ; a fountain  of  eternal  admi- 
ration, delight,  and  creative  force  within  him  meeting  the 
ocean  of  visible  and  governable  things  around  him. 

That  is  what  we  have  to  make  men,  so  far  as  we  may.  All 
are  to  be  men  of  genius  in  their  degree, — rivulets  or  riv^ers,  it 
does  not  matter,  so  that  the  souls  be  clear  and  pure ; not  dead 
walls  encompassing  dead  heaps  of  things  known  and  num- 
bered, l)ut  running  waters  in  the  sweet  wilderness  of  things 
unnumbered  and  unknown,  conscious  only  of  the  living  banks, 
on  which  they  partly  refresh  and  partly  reflect  the  flowers, 
and  so  pass  on. 

§ XXIX.  Let  each  man  answer  for  himself  how  far  his  knowl- 
edge has  made  him  this,  or  how  far  it  is  loaded  upon  him  as 
the  pyramid  is  upon  tlie  tomb.  Let  him  consider,  also,  how 
much  of  it  has  cost  him  labor  and  time  that  might  have  been 
spent  in  healthy,  happy  action,  beneflcial  to  all  mankind ; 
how  many  living  souls  may  have  been  left  uncomforted  and 
unhelped  by  him,  while  his  own  eyes  were  failing  by  the  mid- 
night lamp ; how  many  warm  sympathies  have  died  within 
him  as  he  measured  lines  or  counted  letters ; how  many 
draughts  of  ocean  air,  and  steps  on  mountain -turf,  and  open- 
ings of  the  highest  heaven  he  has  lost  for  his  knowledge ; how 
much  of  that  knowledge,  so  dearly  bought,  is  now  forgotten 
or  despised,  leaving  only  the  capacity  of  wonder  less  within 
him,  rnd,  as  it  happens  in  a thousand  instances,  perhaps  even 


54 


TiriRl)  PEHlOl). 


t.  PRIDE  OE  SCIENCE. 


also  the  capacity  of  devotion.  And  let  him,- — if,  after  thus 
dealing  with  his  own  heart,  he  can  say  that  his  knowledge 
lias  indeed  been  fruitful  to  him, — yet  consider  how  many  there 
are  who  have  been  forced  by  the  inevitable  laws  of  modeiai 
education  into  toil  utterly  repugnant  to  their  natures,  and  that 
in  the  extreme,  until  the  wliole  strength  of  the  young  soul 
was  sapped  away ; and  then  pronounce  with  fearfulness  how 
far,  and  in  how  many  senses,  it  may  indeed  be  true  that  the 
wisdom  of  this  world  is  foolishness  with  God. 

§ XXX.  Now  all  this  possibility  of  evil,  observe,  attaches  to 
knowledge  pursued  for  the  noblest  ends,  if  it  be  pursued  im- 
prudently. I have  assumed,  in  speaking  of  its  effect  both  on 
men  generally  and  on  the  artist  especially,  that  it  was  sought 
in  the  true  love  of  it,  and  with  all  honesty  and  directness  of 
purpose.  But  this  is  granting  far  too  much  in  its  favor. 
Of  knowledge  in  general,  and  without  cpialitication,  it  is  said 
by  the  Apostle  that  it  puffeth  up ; ” and  the  father  of  all 
modern  science,  writing  directly  in  its  praise,  yet  asserts  this 
danger  even  in  more  absolute  terms,  calling  it  a venomous- 
ness’' in  the  very  nature  of  knowledge  itself. 

§ XXXI.  There  is,  indeed,  much  difference  in  this  respect 
between  the  tendencies  of  different  branches  of  knowledge ; it 
being  a sure  rule  that  exactly  in  pi*oportion  as  they  are  inierior, 
nugatory,  or  limited  in  scope,  their  jiower  of  feeding  pride  is 
greater.  Thus  pliilology,  logic,  rhetoric,  and  the  other  sciences 
of  the  schools,  being  for  the  most  part  ridiculous  amj  trifling, 
have  so  pestilent  an  effect  upon  those  who  are  devoted  to  them, 
l-hat  their  students  cannot  conceive  of  any  higher  sciences  than 
these,  but  fancy  that  all  education  ends  in  the  knowledge  of 
, \vords  : but  the  true  and  great  sciences,  more  especially  natural 
History,  make  men  gentle  and  modest  in  proportion  to  the 
urgeness  of  their  apprehension,  and  just  perception  of  the  in- 
/initeness  of  the  things  they  can  never  know.  And  this,  it 
seems  to  me,  is  the  principal  lesson  v^e  are  intended  to  be 
rauglit  by  the  book  of  Jol) ; for  there  God  has  thrown  open  to 
as  the  heart  of  a man  most  just  and  holy,  and  apparently  per- 
fect in  all  things  possible  to  human  nature  except  humility. 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE.  II.  ROMAX  RENTAISSA^^CE. 


55 


For  this  he  is  tried:  and  we  are  shown  that  no  suffering,  no 
self-examination,  however  honest,  however  stern,  no  searching 
out  of  the  heart  by  its  own  bitterness,  is  enough  to  convince 
man  of  his  nothingness  before  God  ; but  that  the  sight  of  God’s 
creation  will  do  it.  For,  when  the  Deity  himself  has  willed 
to  end  the  temptation,  and  to  accomplish  in  Job  that  for 
which  it  was  sent.  He  does  not  vouchsafe  to  reason  with  him, 
still  less  does  He  overwhelm  him  with  terroj*,  or  confound  him 
by  laying  open  before  his  eyes  the  book  of  his  iniquities.  He 
0]3ens  before  him  only  the  arch  of  the  dayspring,  and  the  foun- 
tains of  the  deep ; and  amidst  the  covert  of  the  reeds,  and  on 
tlie  heaving  waves,  He  bids  him  watch  the  kings  of  the  children 
of  pride, — Behold  now  Behemoth,  which  I made  with  thee 
And  the  work  is  done. 

§ XXXII.  Thus,  if,  I repeat,  there  is  any  one  lesson  in  the 
whole  book  which  stands  forth  more  definitely  than  another,  it 
is  this  of  the  holy  and  humbling  influence  of  natural  science 
on  the  human  heart.  And  yet,  even  here,  it  is  not  the  science, 
but  the  perception,  to  which  the  good  is  owing;  and  the 
natural  sciences  may  become  as  harmful  as  any  others,  when 
they  lose  themselves  in  classification  and  catalogue-making. 
Still,  the  principal  danger  is  with  the  sciences  of  words  and 
methods ; and  it  was  exactl}^  into  those  sciences  that  the  whole 
energy  of  men  during  the  Renaissance  period  was  thrown. 
They  discovered  suddenly  that  the  world  for  ten  centuries  had 
been  living  in  an  yngrammatical  manner,  and  they  made  it 
forthwith  the  end  of  human  existence  to  be  grammatical.  And 
it  mattered  thenceforth  nothing  wFat  was  said,  or  what  was 
done,  so  only  that  it  was  said  with  scholarshiji,  and  done  with 
system.  Falsehood  in  a Ciceronian  dialect  had  no  o])posers; 
truth  in  patois  no  listeners.  A Roman  phrase  was  thought 
worth  any  number  of  Gothic  facts.  The  sciences  ceased  at  once 
to  be  anything  more  than  different  kinds  of  grammars, — gram- 
mar of  language,  grammar  of  logic,  grammar  of  ethics,  grammar 
of  art;  and  the  tongue,  wit,  and  invention  of  the  human  race 
were  supposed  to  have  found  their  utmost  and  most  divine 
mission  in  syntax  and  ^^yllogism,  perspective  and  five  orders. 


56 


THIKD  PEKIOD. 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE. 


Of  such  knowledge  as  this,  nothing  bnt  pride  could  come ; 
and,  tlierefore,  I liave  called  the  first  mental  characteristic  of 
the  Renaissance  schools,  the  pride”  of  science.  If  they  had 
reached  any  science  worth  the  name,  they  might  have  loved  it ; 
but  of  the  j)altry  knowledge  they  possessed,  they  could  only  be 
proud.  There  was  not  anything  in  it  capable  of  being  loved. 
Anatomy,  indeed,  then  first  made  a subject  of  accurate  study, 
is  a true  science,  but  not  so  attractive  as  to  enlist  the  affections 
strongly  on  its  side : and  therefore,  like  its  meaner  sisters,  it 
became  merely  a ground  for  pride ; and  the  one  main  purpose 
of  the  Renaissance  artists,  in  all  their  work,  was  to  show  how 
much  they  knew. 

§ XXXIII.  There  were,  of  course,  noble  exceptions ; but 
chiefly  belonging  to  the  earliest  periods  of  the  Renaissance, 
when  its  teaching  had  not  yet  produced  its  full  effect.  Raphael, 
Leonardo,  and  Michael  Angelo  w^ere  all  trained  in  the  old 
school ; they  all  had  masters  who  knew  the  true  ends  of  art, 
and  had  reached  them  ; masters  nearly  as  great  as  they  were 
themselves,  but  imbued  with  the  old  religious  and  earnest 
spirit,  which  their  discij)les  receiving  from  tliem,  and  drinking 
at  the  same  time  deeply  from  all  the  fountains  of  knowledge 
opened  in  their  day,  became  the  world’s  wonders.  Then  the 
dull  wondei’ing  world  believed  that  their  greatness  rose  out  of 
their  new  knowledge,  instead  of  out  of  that  ancient  religious 
root,  in  which  to  abide  was  life,  from  which  to  be  severed  was 
annihilation.  And  from  that  day  to  this,  they  have  tried  to 
produce  Michael  Angelos  and  Leonardos  by  teaching  the  barren 
sciences,  and  still  liave  mourned  and  marvelled  that  no  more 
Michael  Angelos  came  ; not  perceiving  that  those  great  Fathers 
w^ere  only  able  to  receive  such  nourishment  because  they  were 
rooted  on  the  rock  of  all  ages,  and  that  our  scientific  teaching, 
nowadays,  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  the  assiduous  water- 
ing of  trees  whose  stems  are  cut  through.  Nay,  I have  even 
granted  too  much  in  saying  that  those  great  men  were  able  to 
receive  pure  nourishment  from  the  sciences ; for  my  own  con- 
viction'is,  and  I know  it  to  be  shared  by  most  of  those  who 
love  Raphael  truly, — that  he  painted  best  when  he  knew  leasts 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE.  H.  ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


57 


Michael  Angelo  was  betrayed,  again  and  again,  into  such  vain 
and  offensive  exhibition  of  his  anatomical  knowledge  as,  to  this 
day,  renders  his  liigher  powers  indiscernible  by  the  greater 
part  of  men  ; and  Leonardo  fretted  his  life  away  in  engineer- 
ing, so  that  there  is  hardly  a picture  left  to  bear  his  name. 
But,  with  respect  to  all  who  followed,  there  can  be  no  question 
that  the  science  they  possessed  was  utterly  harmful ; serving 
merely  to  draw  away  their  hearts  at  once  from  the  purposes  of 
art  and  the  power  of  nature,  and  to  make,  out  of  the  canvas 
and  marble,  nothing  more  than  materials  for  the  exhibition  of 
petty  dexterity  and  useless  knowledge. 

§ xxxiv.  It  is  sometimes  amusing  to  watch  the  naive  and 
childish  way  in  which  this  vanity  is  shown.  For  instance, 
when  perspective  was  first  invented,  the  world  thought  it  a 
mighty  discovery,  and  the  greatest  men  it  had  in  it  were  as 
proud  of  knowing  that  retiring  lines  converge,  as  if  all  the 
wisdom  of  Solomon  had  been  compressed  into  a vanishing 
point.  And,  accordingly,  it  became  nearly  impossible  for  any 
one  to  jiaint  a Nativity,  but  he  must  turn  the  stable  and  man- 
ger into  a Corinthian  arcade,  in  order  to  show  his  knowledge 
of  perspective ; and  half  the  best  architecture  of  the  time,  in- 
stead of  being  adorned  with  historical  sculpture,  as  of  old,  was 
set  foilli  with  bas-relief  of  minor  corridors  and  galleries,  thrown 
into  perspective. 

Now  that  perspective  can  be  taught  to  any  schoolboy  in  a 
week,  we  can  smile  at  this  vanity.  But  the  fact  is,  that  all 
pride  in  knowledge  is  precisely  as  ridiculous,  whatever  its  kind, 
or  whatever  its  degree.  There  is,  indeed,  nothing  of  which 
man  has  any  right  to  be  proud ; but  the  very  last  thing  of 
wliich,  with  any  show  of  reason,  he  can  make  his  boast  is  his 
knowledge,  except  only  that  infinitely  small  portion  of  it  which 
he  has  discovered  for  himself.  For  what  is  there  to  be  more 
proud  of  in  receiving  a piece  of  knowledge  from  another  per- 
son, than  in  receiving  a piece  of  money  ? Beggars  should  not 
be  proud,  whatever  kind  of  alms  they  receive.  Knowledge  is 
like  current  coin.  A man  may  have  some  right  *to  bG  proud 
of  possessing  it,  if  he  has  worked  for  the  gold  of  it,  and  assayed 


58 


TIIIKD  PEKIOD. 


I.  PRIDE  OF  SCIENCE. 


it,  and  stamped  it,  so  that  it  may  be  received  of  all  men  as 
true;  or  earned  it  fairly,  being  already  assayed  : but  if  he  has 
done  none  of  these  things,  but  only  had  it  thi’own  in  his  face 
by  a passer-by,  what  cause  has  he  to  be  proud  ? And  though, 
in  this  mendicant  fasliion,  he  had  heaped  together  t)ie  wealtli 
of  Croesus,  would  pride  any  more,  for  this,  become  linn,  as,  in 
some  sort,  it  becomes  the  man  who  has  labored  for  his  fortune, 
however  small  ? So,  if  a man  tells  me  the  sun  is  larger  than 
the  earth,  have  I any  cause  for  pride  in  knowing  it  ? or,  if  any 
multitude  of  men  tell  me  any  number  of  things,  heaping  all 
their  wealth  of  knowledge  upon  me,  have  I any  reason  to  be 
proud  under  the  heap?  And  is  not  nearly  all  the  knowdedge 
of  which  we  boast  in  these  days  cast  upon  us  in  this  dishonor- 
able way  ; worked  for  by  other  men,  proved  by  them,  and  then 
forced  upon  us,  even  against  our  wills,  and  beaten  into  us  in 
our  youth,  before  we  have  the  wit  even  to  know  if  it  be  good 
or  not?  (Mark  the  distinction  between  knowledge  and 
thought.)  Truly  a noble  possession  to  be  proud  of!  Be 
assured,  there  is  no  part  of  the  furniture  of  a man’s  mind 
wdiich  he  has  a right  to  exult  in,  but  that  which  he  has  hewn 
and  fashioned  for  himself.  He  w^ho  has  built  himself  a hut  on 
a desert  heath,  and  carved  liis  bed,  and  table,  and  chair  out  of 
the  nearest  forest,  may  have  some  right  to  take  pride  in  the  appli- 
ances of  his  narrow"  chamber,  as  assuredly  he  will  have  joy  in 
them.  But  the  man  who  has  had  a palace  built,  and  adorned, 
and  furnished  for  him,  may,  indeed,  have  many  advantages 
above  the  other,  but  he  has  no  reason  to  be  proud  of  his  up- 
holsterer’s skill ; and  it  is  ten  to  one  if  he  has  half  the  joy  in 
his  couches  of  ivory  that  the  other  w"ill  have  in  his  pallet  of 
pine. 

§ XXXV.  And  observe  how"  we  feel  this,  in  the  kind  of  re- 
spect we  pay  to  such  know"ledge  as  we  are  indeed  capable  of 
estimating  the  value  of.  When  it  is  our  own,  and  new  to  us, 
w" e cannot  judge  of  it ; but  let  it  be  another’s  also,  and  long 
familiar  to  us,  and  see  wdiat  value  w-e  set  on  it.  Consider  how^ 
w^e  regal’d  a schoolboy,  fresh  from  his  term’s  labor.  If  he  be^ 
gin  to  display  his  new^ly  acrjuired  small  knowdedge  to  us,  and 


II.  nuDE  OF  STATE.  II.  ROM  AX  REXAISSAXCE. 


59 


plume  himself  thereupon,  how  soon  do  we  silence  him  with 
contempt ! But  it  is  not  so  if  the  schoolboy  begins  to  feel  or 
see  anything.  In  the  strivings  of  his  soul  within  him  he  is 
our  equal ; in  his  power  of  sight  and  thought  he  stands  sepa- 
rate from  us,  and  may  be  a greater  than  we.  We  are  ready  to 
hear  him  forthwith.  ‘Won  saw  that?  you  felt  that?  No 
matter  for  your  being  a child  ; let  us  hear.” 

§ XXXVI.  Consider  that  every  generation  of  men  stands  m 
this  relation  to  its  successors.  It  is  as  the  schoolboy:  the 
knowledge  of  which  it  is  proudest  will  be  as  the  alphabet  to 
tliose  who  follow.  It  had  better  make  no  noise  about  its  knowl- 
edge; a time  will  come  when  its  utmost,  in  that  kind,  will  be 
food  for  scorn.  Poor  fools!  was  that  all  they  knew?  and  be- 
hold how  proud  they  were ! But  what  we  see  and  feel  will 
never  be  mocked  at.  All  men  will  be  thankful  to  us  for  tell- 
ing them  that.  Indeed  1”  they  will  say,  they  felt  that  in 
their  day?  saw  that?  Would  God  we  may  be  like  them, 
before  we  go  to  the  home  where  sight  and  thought  are 
not  1” 

This  unhappy  and  childish  pride  in  knowledge,  then,  was 
the  first  constituent  element  of  the  Renaissance  mind,  and  it 
was  enough,  of  itself,  to  have  cast  it  into  swift  decline : but  it 
was  aided  by  another  form  of  pride,  which  was  above  called 
the  Pride  of  State ; and  which  we  have  next  to  examine. 

§ XXXVII.  II.  Pride  of  State.  It  was  noticed  in  the 
second  volume  of  ^‘Modern  Painters,”  p.  122,  that  the  princi- 
ple which  had  most  power  in  retarding  the  modern  school  of 
portraiture  was  its  constant  expression  of  individual  vanity  and 
pride.  And  the  reader  cannot  fail  to  have  observed  that  one 
of  the  readiest  and  commonest  ways  in  which  the  painter  min- 
isters to  this  vanity,  is  by  introducing  the  pedestal  or  shaft  of 
a column,  or  some  fragment,  however  simple,  of  Renaissance 
architecture,  in  the  background  of  the  portrait.  And  this  is 
not  merely  because  such  architecture  is  bolder  or  grander  than, 
in  general,  that  of  the  apai*tments  of  a private  house.  No 
other  architecture  would  produce  the  same  eifect  in  the  same 
degree.  The  richest  Gothic,  the  most  massive  Norman,  would 


60 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


not  produce  the  same  sense  of  exaltation  as  the  simple  and 
meagre  lines  of  the  Renaissance. 

§ xxxYiii.  And  if  we  think  over  this  matter  a little,  we 
shall  soon  feel  that  in  those  meagre  lines  there  is  indeed  an  ex- 
pression of  aristocracy  in  its  worst  characters ; coldness,  per- 
fectness of  training,  incapability  of  emotion,  want  of  sympathy 
with  the  weakness  of  lower  men,  blank,  hopeless,  haughty  self- 
sufficiency.  All  these  characters  are  written  in  the  Renaissance 
architecture  as  plainly  as  if  they  were  graven  on  it  in  words. 
For,  observe,  ail  otlier  architectures  have  something  in  them 
that  common  men  can  enjoy ; some  concession  to  the  simplici- 
ties of  humanity,  some  daily  bread  for  the  hunger  of  the 
multitude.  Quaint  fancy,  rich  ornament,  bright  color,  some- 
thing that  shows  a sympathy  with  men  of  ordinary  minds  and 
hearts ; and  tliis  wrought  out,  at  least  in  the  Gothic,  with  a 
rudeness  showing  that  the  workman  did  not  mind  exposing  his 
own  ignorance  if  he  could  please  others.  But  the  Renaissance 
is  exactly  the  contrary  of  all  this.  It  is  rigid,  cold,  inhuman  ; 
incapable  of  glowing,  of  stooping,  of  conceding  for  an  instant. 
Whatever  excellence  it  has  is  refined,  high-trained,  and  deeply 
erudite ; a kind  which  the  architect  well  knows  no  common 
mind  can  taste.  He  proclaims  it  to  us  aloud.  ‘^You  cannot 
feel  my  work  unless  you  study  Vitruvius.  I will  give  you  no 
gay  color,  no  pleasant  sculpture,  nothing  to  make  you  happy ; 
for  I am  a learned  man.  All  the  pleasure  you  can  have  in 
anything  I do  is  in  its  proud  breeding,  its  rigid  formalism,  its 
perfect  finish,  its  cold  tranquillity.  I do  not  work  for  the 
yiilgar,  only  for  the  men  of  the  academy  and  the  court.’’ 

§ XXXIX.  And  the  instinct  of  the  world  felt  this  in  a 
moment.  In  the  new  precision  and  accurate  law  of  the  clas- 
sical forms,  they  perceived  something  peculiarly  adapted  to 
the  setting  forth  of  state  in  an  appalling  manner : Princes  cl e^ 
lighted  in  it,  and  courtiers.  The  Gothic  was  good  for  God’s 
worship,  but  this  was  good  for  man’s  worship.  The  Gothic 
had  fellowship  with  all  hearts,  and  was  universal,  like  nature: 
it  could  frame  a temple  for  the  prayer  of  nations,  or  shrink 
into  tlie  poor  man’s  winding  stair.  But  here  was  an  architect 


i 


II.  miDE  OF  STATE.  II.  KOMAK  RENAISSANCE. 


61 


tiire  that  would  not  shrink,  that'  had  in  it  no  submission,  no 
mercy.  Tlie  proud  princes  and  lords  rejoiced  in  it.  It  was 
full  of  insult  to  the  poor  in  its  every  line.  It  would  not  be 
built  of  the  materials  at  the  poor  man’s  hand ; it  w^ould  not  roof 
itself  with  thatch  or  shingle,  and  black  oak  beams ; it  would 
not  wall  itself  with  rough  stone  or  brick  ; it  would  not  pierce 
itself  with  small  windows  where  they  w^ere  needed  ; it  would 
not  niche  itself,  wherever  there  was  room  for  it,  in  the  street 
corners.  It  would  be  of  hewn  stone ; it  would  have  its  win- 
dows and  its  doors,  and  its  stairs  and  its  pillars,  in  lordly  order, 
and  of  stately  size ; it  would  have  its  wings  and  its  corridors, 
and  its  halls  and  its  gaivlens,  as  if  all  the  earth  were  its  owm. 
And  the  rugged  cottages  of  the  mountaineers,  and  the  fantastic 
streets  of  the  laboring  burgher  were  to  be  thrust  out  of  its 
w^ay,  as  of  a lower  species. 

§ XL.  It  is  to  be  noted  also,  that  it  ministered  as  much  to 
luxury  as  to  pride.  Not  to  luxury  of  the  eye,  that  is  a holy 
luxury ; Nature  ministers  to  that  in  her  painted  meadows,  and 
sculptured  forests,  and  gilded  heavens  ; the  Gothic  builder 
ministered  to  that  in  his  twisted  traceries,  and  deep-wrought 
foliage,  and  burning  casements.  The  dead  Renaissance  drew 
back  into  its  earthliness,  out  of  all  that  was  w^arm  and  heavenly ; 
back  into  its  pride,  out  of  all  that  was  simple  and  kind  ; back 
into  its  stateliness,  out  of  all  that  was  impulsive,  reverent,  and 
gay.  But  it  understood  the  luxury  of  the  body  ; the  terraced 
and  scented  and  grottoed  garden,  witli  its  trickling  fountains 
and  slumbrous  shades  ; the  spacious  hall  and  lengthened  corri- 
dor for  the  summer  heat ; the  well-closed  windows,  and  per- 
fect fittings  and  furniture,  for  defence  against  the  cold ; and 
the  soft  picture,  and  frescoed  wall  and  roof,  covered  wdth  the 
last  lasciviousness  of  Paganism  ; — this  is  understood  and  pos- 
sessed to  the  full,  and  still  possesses.  This  is  the  kind  of 
domestic  architecture  on  which  we  pride  ourselves,  even  to 
this  day,  as  an  infinite  and  honorable  advance  from  the  rough 
habits  of  our  ancestors ; from  the  time  when  the  king’s  floor 
was  strewn  with  rushes,  and  the  tapestries  swayed  before  the 
searching  Ayind  in  tlie  baron’s  hall. 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


n.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


02 


§ XLi.  Let  us  hear  two  stories  of  those  rouglier  times. 

At  tlie  debate  of  King  Edwin  with  his  courtiers  and  priests, 
Avliether  he  ought  to  receive  the  Gospel  jireached' to  him  bv 
Paulinus,  one  of  liis  nobles  spoke  as  follows : 

The  present  life,  O king  I weighed  with  the  time  that  is 
unknown,  seems  to  me  like  this.  AVhen  you  are  sittino;  at  a 
feast  with,  your  earls  and  thanes  in  winter  time,  and  the  fire  is 
lighted,  and  the  hall  is  warmed,  and  it  rains  and  snows,  and 
the  storm  is  loud  without,  there  comes  a sparrow,  and  flies 
through  the  house.  It  comes  in  at  one  door  and  goes  out  at 
the  other.  AVhile  it  is  within,  it  is  not  touched  by  the  winters 
storm  ; but  it  is  but  for  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  for  from 
winter  it  comes  and  to  winter  it  returns.  So  also  this  life  of 
man  endureth  for  a little  space  ; what  goes  before  or  what 
follows  after,  we  know  not.  AVherefore,  if  this  new  lore  bring 
anything  more  certain,  it  is  flt  that  we  should  follow  it.' ’ ^ 

That  could  not  have  happened  in  a Renaissance  building. 
The  bird  could  not  have  dashed  in  from  the  cold  into  the  heat, 
and  from  the  heat  back  again  into  the  storjn.  It  would  have 
had  to  come  up  a flight  of  marble  stairs,  and  through  seven 
or  eight  antechambers ; and  so,  if  it  had  ever  made  its  way 
into  the  presence  chamber,  out  again  through  loggias  and  cor- 
]’idoi*s  innumerable.  And  the  truth  which  the  bird  brought 
with  it,  fresh  from  heavem  has,  in  like  manner,  to  make  its 
way  to  the  Renaissance  miiid  through  many  antechambers, 
hardly,  and  as  a despised  thing,  if  at  all. 

§ XLii.  Hear  another  story  of  those  early  times. 

The  king  of  Jerusalem,  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  at  the  siege 
of  Asshur,  or  Arsur,  gave  audience  to  some  emirs  from  Sama- 
ria and  Xaplous.  They  found  him  seated  on  the  ground  on  r 
sack  of  straw.  They  expressing  surprise,  Godfrey  answered 
them  : Alay  not  the  earth,  out  of  which  we  came,  and  which 

is  to  be  our  dwelling  after  death,  serve  us  for  a seat  during 
life 

It  is  long  since  such  a throne  has  been  set  in  the  receptiom 


* Churton’s  “ Early  English  Cliiircli.'’  London,  1840. 


IT.  PHTDK  OF  STATE.  II.  ROMAN  KEXAISSAKCE.  . 03 

cliaiiibers  of  Gliristendom,  or  sucli  an  answer  heard  from  the 
lips  of  a king. 

Thus  the  Renaissance  spirit  became  base  both  in  its  absti- 
nence and  its  indulgence.  Base  in  its  abstinence ; curtailing 
the  bright  and  playful  wealth  of  form  and  thought,  which 
tilled  the  architecture  of  the  earlier  ages  with  sources  of 
delight  for  their  hardy  spirit,  pure,  simple,  and  yet  rich  as  the 
fretwork  of  flowers  and  moss,  watered  by  some  strong  and 
stainless  mountain  stream : and  base  in  its  indulgence  ; as  it 
granted  to  the  body  what  it  withdrew  from  the  heart,  and 
exhausted,  in  smoothing  the  pavement  for  the  painless  feet, 
and  softening  the  pillow  for  the  sluggish  brain,  the  powers  of 
art  which  once  had  hewn  rough  ladders  into  the  clouds  of 
heaven,  and  set  up  the  stones  by  which  they  rested  for  houses 
of  God. 

§ xLiii.  And  just  in  proportion  as  this  courtly  sensuality 
lowered  the  real  nobleness  of  the  men  whom  birth  or  fortune 
raised  above  their  fellow’s,  rose  their  estimate  of  their  own 
dignity,  together  with  the  insolence  and  unkindness  of  its 
expression,  and  the  grossness  of  the  flattery  wflth  wdiich  it 
w^as  fed.  Pride  is  indeed  the  first  and  the  last  among  the  sins 
of  men,  and  there  is  no  age  of  the  w^orld  in  wdiich  it  has  not 
been  unveiled  in  the  power  and  prosperity  of  the  wicked. 
But  there  w’as  never  in  any  form  of  slavery,  or  of  feudal  suprem- 
acy, a forgetfulness  so  total  of  the  common  majesty  of  the 
human  soul,  and  of  the  brotherly  kindness  due  from  man  to 
man,  as  in  the  aristocratic  follies  in  the  Renaissance.  I have 
not  space  to  follow  out  this  most  interesting  and  extensive 
subject ; but  here  is  a single  and  very  curious  example  of  the 
kind  of  flattery  with  wdiich  architectural  teaching  was  mingled 
wdien  addressed  to  the  men  of  rank  of  the  day. 

§ xLiv.  In  St.  Mark’s  library  there  is  a very  curious  Latin 
manuscript  of  the  twenty-five  books  of  Averulinus,  a Florentine 
architect,  upon  the  principles  of  his  art.  The  book  was  written 
in  or  about  1460,  and  translated  into  Latin,  and  richly  illumi- 
nated for  Corvinus,  king  of  Hungary,  about  1483.  I extract 
from  the  third  book  the  followdng  passage  on  the  nature  of 


G4 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


stones.  As  there  are  three  genera  of  men,— tliat  is  to  say^ 
nobles,  men  of  the  middle  classes,  and  rustics, — so  it  appears 
that  there  are  of  stones.  For  the  marbles  and  common  stones 
of  which  we  have  spoken  above,  set  forth  the  rustics.  The 
porphyries  and  alabasters,  and  the  other  harder  stones  of 
mingled  quality,  represent  the  middle  classes,  if  we  are  to  deal 
in  comparisons  : and  by  means  of  these  the  ancients  adorned 
their  temples  wdth  incrustations  and  ornaments  in  a magnifi- 
cent manner.  And  after  these  come  the  chalcedonies  and 
sardonyxes,  &c.,  which  are  so  transparent  that  there  can  be 
seen  no  spot  in  them.'^  Thus  men  endowed  with  nobility  lead 
a life  in  which  no  spot  can  be  found.’’ 

Canute  or  Coeur  de  Lion  (I  name  not  Godfrey  or  St.  Louis) 
would  have  dashed  their  sceptres  against  the  lips  of  a man 
who  sliould  have  dared  to  utter  to  them  flattery  such  as  this. 
But  in  the  fifteenth  century  it  was  rendered  and  accepted  as 
a matter  of  course,  and  the  tempers  which  delighted  in  it 
necessarily  took  pleasure  also  in  every  vulgar  or  false  means, 
of  taking  worldly  superiority.  And  among  such  false  means 
largeness  of  scale  in  the  dwelling-house  was  of  course  one  of 
the  easiest  and  most  direct.  All  persons,  however  senseless 
or  dull,  could  appreciate  size:  it  required  some  exertion  of 
intelligence  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  quaint  carving  of  the 
Gothic  times,  but  none  to  perceive  that  one  heap  of  stones 
was  higher  than  another.f  And  therefore,  while  in  the  exe- 
cution and  manner  of  work  the  Renaissance  builders  zealously 
vindicated  for  themselves  the  attribute  of  cold  and  superior 
learning,  they  appealed  for  such  approbation  as  they  needed 
from  the  multitude,  to  the  lowest  possible  standard  of  taste ; 

* ‘ ‘ Quibus  nulla  macula  iuest  quse  non  cernatur.  Ita  viri  nobilitate 
pra?diti  earn  vitam  peragant  cui  nulla  notapossit  iiiviri.”  The  first  sentence 
is  literally,  “ in  which  there  is  no  spot  that  may  not  be  seen.”  But  I imag- 
ine the  writer  meant  it  as  I have  put  it  in  the  text,  else  his  comparison 
does  not  hold. 

f Observe,  however,  that  the  magnitude  spoken  of  here  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing passages,  is  the  finished  and  polished  magnitude  sought  for  the  sake 
of  pomp  : not  the  rough  magnitude  sought  for  the  sake  of  sublimity  ; 
respecting  which  see  the  “ Seven  Lamps,”  chap.  iii.  § 5,  6,  and  8. 


LT.  PlilOE  OF  STATE.  H.  KOMAX  IIEXAISSAXCE. 


05 


and  while  the  older  workman  lavished  liis  labor  on  the  minute 
niche  and  narrow  casement,  on  the  doorways  no  higher  than 
the  head,  and  the  contracted  angles  of  the  turreted  chamber, 
the  Renaissance  builder  spared  such  cost  and  toil  in  his  detail, 
that  he  might  spend  it  in  bringing  larger  stones  from  a 
distance ; and  restricted  himself  to  rustication  and  five  orders, 
that  he  might  load  the  ground  with  colossal  piers,  and  raise  an 
ambitious  barrenness  of  architecture,  as  inanimate  as  it  was 
gigantic,  above  the  feasts  and  follies  of  the  powerful  or  the 
rich.  The  Titanic  insanity  extended  itself  also  into  ecclesias- 
tical design  : the  principal  church  in  Italy  was  built  with  little 
idea  of  any  other  admirableness  than  that  which  was  to  result 
from  its  being  huge ; and  the  religious  impressions  of  those 
who  enter  it  are  to  this  day  supposed  to  be  dependent,  in  a 
great  degree,  on  their  discovering  that  they  cannot  span  the 
thumbs  of  the  statues  which  sustain  the  vessels  for  holy 
water. 

§ XLV.  It  is  easy  to  understand  how  an  architecture  which 
thus  appealed  not  less  to  the  lowest  instincts  of  dulness  than 
to  the  subtlest  pride  of  learning,  rapidly  found  acceptance 
with  a large  body  of  mankind  ; and  how  the  spacious  pomp 
of  the  new  manner  of  design  came  to  be  eagerly  adopted  by 
the  luxurious  aristocracies,  not  only  of  Yenice,  but  of  the 
other  countries  of  Christendom,  now  gradually  gathering 
themselves  into  that  insolent  and  festering  isolation,  against 
which  the  cry  of  the  poor  sounded  hourly  in  more  ominous 
unison,  bursting  at  last  into  thunder  (mark  where, — first 
among  the  planted  walks  and  plashing  fountains  of  the  palace 
wherein  the  Renaissance  luxury  attained  its  utmost  height  in 
Europe,  Versailles)  ; that  cry,  mingling  so  much  piteousness 
with  its  wrath  and  indignation,  Our  soul  is  filled  with  the 
scornful  reproof  of  the  w^ealthy,  and  with  the  despitefulness 
of  the  proud.’’ 

§ xLvi.  But  of  all  the  evidence  bearing  upon  this  subject 
presented  by  the  various  arts  of  the  fifteenth  century,  none  is 
so  interesting  or  so  conclusive  as  that  deduced  from  its  tombs. 
For,  exactly  in  proportion  as  the  pride  of  life  became  more 


C6 


THIKD  PERIOD. 


IT.  PKIDE  OP  STATE. 


insolent,  the  fear  of  death  hecaiiie  more  servile  ; and  the  dif- 
ference in  the  manner  in  Avhich  the  men  of  early  and  later 
days  adorned  the  sepulclire,  confesses  a still  greater  difference 
in  their  manner  of  regarding  death.  To  those  he  came  as  the 
comforter  and  the  friend,  rest  in  his  right  hand,  hope  in  his  left ; 
to  these  as  the  humiliator,  the  spoiler,  and  the  avenger.  And, 
therefore,  we  find  the  early  tombs  at  once  simple  and  loA^ely 
in  adornment,  severe  and  solemn  in  their  expression  ; confess- 
ing the  power,  and  accepting  the  peace,  of  death,  openly  and 
joyfully  ; and  in  all  their  symbols  marking  that  the  hope  of 
resurrection  lay  only  in  Christ’s  righteousness ; signed  always 
wdth  this  simjile  utterance  of  the  dead,  I will  lay  me  down 
in  peace,  and  take  my  rest ; for  it  is  thou,  Lord,  only  that 
makest  me  dAvell  in  safety.”  But  the  tombs  of  the  later  ages 
are  a ghastly  struggle  of  mean  pride  and  miserable  terror  : 
the  one  mustering  the  statues  of  the  Virtues  about  the  tomb, 
disguising  the  sarcophagus  Avith  delicate  scul])ture,  polishing 
the  false  periods  of  the  elaborate  epitaph,  and  filling  Avith 
strained  animation  the  features  of  the  portrait  statue  ; and 
the  other  summoning  underneath,  out  of  the  niche  or  from 
behind  the  curtain,  the  frowning  skull,  or  scythed  skeleton,  or 
some  other  more  terrible  image  of  the  enemy  in  Avhose  defi- 
ance the  whiteness  of  the  sepulchre  had  been  set  to  shine 
above  4:he  whiteness  of  the  ashes. 

§ XLViT.  This  change  in  the  feeling  with  Avliich  sepulchral 
r/mnuments  were  designed,  from  the  eleventh  to  the  eigh- 
teenth centuries,  has  been  common  to  the  Avhole  of  Europe. 
But,  as  Venice  is  in  other  respects  the  centre  of  the  Renais- 
sance system,  so  also  she  exhibits  this  change  in  the  manner 
of  the  sepulchral  monument  under  circumstances  peculiarly 
calculated  to  teach  us  its  true  character.  For  the  severe 
guard  Avhich,  in  earlier  tiines,  she  put  upon  every  tendency  to 
personal  pomp  and  ambition,  renders  the  tombs  of  her  ancient 
monarchs  as  remarkable  for  modesty  and  simplicity  as  for 
their  religious  feeling  ; so  that,  in  tins  respect,  they  are  sepa- 
rated by  a considerable  interval  from  the  more  costly  monu- 
ments erected  at  tlie  same  periods  to  the  kings  or  nobles  of 


II.  t‘Rlt)E  ot'  STATE,  n.  ROJIA.X  UEKAlSSAXCE. 


h i 

other  European  states.  In  later  times,  on  the  other  hand,  as 
the  piety  of  the  Venetians  diminished,  their  pride  overleaped 
all  limits,  and  the  tombs  which  in  recent  epochs,  were  erected 
for  men  who  had  lived  only  to  impoverish  or  disgrace  the 
state,  were  as  much  more  magnificent  than  those  contempora- 
neously erected  for  the  nobles  of  Europe,  as  the  monuments 
for  the  erreat  Doo:es  had  been  humbler.  When,  in  addition  to 
this,  we  refiect  that  the  art  of  sculpture,  considered  as 
expressive  of  emotion,  was  at  a low  ebb  in  Venice  in  the 
twelfth  century,  and  that  in  the  seventeenth  she  took  the  lead 
in  Italy  in  luxurious  work,  we  shall  at  once  see  the  chain  of 
examples  through  which  the  change  of  feeling  is  expressed, 
must  present  more  remarkable  extremes  liere  than  it  can  in 
any  other  city  ; extremes  so  startling  that  their  impressive- 
ness cannot  be  diminished,  while  their  intelligibility  is  greatly 
increased,  by  the  large  number  of  intermediate  types  which 
have  fortunately  been  preserved. 

It  would,  however,  too  much  weary  the  general  reader  if, 
without  illustrations,  I were  to  endeavor  to  lead  him  step  by 
step  through  the  aisles  of  St.  John  and  Paul ; and  I shall 
therefore  confine  myself  to  a slight  notice  of  those  features  in 
sepulchral  architecture  generally  which  are  especially  illustra- 
tive of  the  matter  at  present  in  hand,  and  point  out  the  order 
in  which,  if  possible,  the  traveller  should  visit  the  tombs  in 
Venice,  so  as  to  be  most  deeply  impressed  with  the  true  char- 
acter of  the  lessons  they  convey. 

§ xLviii.  I have  Tiot  such  an  acquaintance  with  the  modes 
of  entombment  or  memorial  in  the  earliest  ages  of  Christianity 
as  would  justify  me  in  making  any  general  statement  respect- 
ing them : but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  perfect  type  of  a Chris- 
tian tomb  was  not  developed  until  toward  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, sooner  or  later  according  to  tlie  civilization  of  each 
country  ; that  perfect  type  consisting  in  the  raised  and  per- 
fectly visible  sarcophagus  of  stone,  bearing  upon  it  a recum- 
bent figure,  aud  the  Avhole  covered  by  a canopy.  Before  that 
type  was  entirely  developed,  and  in  the  more  ordinary  tombs 
contemporary  with  it,  ^ve  find  the  simple  sarcophagus,  often 


€8  > Thirt)  period.  n.  pride  of  state. 

« 

with  only  a rough  block  of  stone  for  its  lid,  sometimes  with  a 
low-gabled  lid  like  a cottage  roof,^  derived  from  Egyptian 
forms,  and  bearing,  either  on  the  sides  or  the  lid,  at  least  a 
sculpture  of  the  cross,  and  sometimes  the  name  of  the 
deceased,  and  date  of  erection  of  the  tomb.  In  more  elabo^ 
rate  examples  rich  figure-sculpture  is  gradually  introduced ; 
and  in  the  perfect  period  the  sarcophagus,  even  when  it  does 
not  bear  any  recumbent  figure,  has  generally  a rich  sculpture 
on  its  sides  representing  an  angel  presenting  the  dead,  in  per- 
son and  dress  as  he  lived,  to  Christ  or  to  the  Madonna,  with 
lateral  figui-es,  sometimes  of  saints,  sometimes — as  in  the  tombs 
of  the  Dukes  of  Burgundy  at  Dijon — of  mourners  ; but  in 
Yenice  almost  always  representing  the  Annunciation,  the 
angel  being  placed  at  one  angle  of  the  sarcophagus,  and  the 
Madonna  at  the  other.  The  canopy,  in  a very  simple  four- 
square form,  or  as  an  arch  over  a recess,  is  added  above  the 
sarcophagus,  long  before  the  life-size  recumbent  figure  appears 
resting  upon  it.  By  the  time  that  the  sculptors  had  acquired 
skill  enough  to  give  much  expression  to  this  figure,  the  canopy 
attains  an  exquisite  symmetry  and  richness ; and,  in  the  most 
elaborate  examples,  is  surmounted  by  a statue,  generally  small, 
representing  the  dead  person  in  the  full  strength  and  pride 
of  life,  while  the  recumbent  figure  shows  him  as  he  lay  in 
death.  And,  at  this  point,  the  perfect  type  of  the  Gothic 
tomb  is  reached. 

§ XLix.  Of  the  simple  sarcophagus  tomb  there  are  many 
exquisite  examples  both  at  Yenice  andYerona;  the  most 
interesting  in  Yenice  are  those  which  are  set  in  the  recesses 
of  the  rude  brick  front  of  the  Church  of  St.  John  and  Paul, 
ornamented  only,  for  the  most  part,  with  two  crosses  set  in 
circles,  and  the  legend  with  the  name  of  the  dead,  and  an 
Orate  pro  anima”  in  another  circle  in  the  centre.  And  in 
this  we  may  note  one  great  proof  of  superiority  in  Italian 
over  English  tombs  : the  latter  being  often  enriched  with 
quatrefoils,  small  shafts,  and  arches,  and  other  ordinary  archi- 
tectural decorations,  which  destroy  their  seriousness  and  solein- 
nity,  render  them  little  more  than  ornamental,  and  havt 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE.  II.  ROMAX  REX AISSAIs  CE.  GO 

! no  religious  meaning  whatever;  while  the  Italian  sarcopliagi 
are  kept  massive,  smoth,  and  gloomy, — heavy-lidded  dim- 
i geons  of  stone,  like  rock-tombs, — but  bearing  on  their  surface, 
j sculptured  with  tender  and  narrow^  lines,  the  emblem  of  the 
; cross,  not  presumptuously  nor  proudly,  but  dimly  graven 
i upon  their  granite,  like  the  hope  which  the  human  heart  holds, 
I but  hardly  perceives  in  its  heaviness. 

§ n.  Among  the  tombs  in  front  of  the  Church  of  St.  John 
and  Paul  there  is  one  which  is  peculiarly  illustrative  of  the 
simplicity  of  these  earlier  ages.  It  is  on  the  left  of  the 
entrance,  a massy  sarcophagus  with  low  horns  as  of  an  altar, 
placed  in  a rude  recess  of  the  outside  wall,  shattered  and  worn, 
and  here  and  there  entangled  among  wild  grass  and  weeds. 

I P et  it  is  the  tomb  of  two  Doges,  Jacopo  and  Porenzo  Tiepolo, 
by  one  of  whom  nearly  the  whole  ground  was  given  for  the 
erection  of  the  noble  church  in  front  of  which  his  unprotected 
tomb  is  wasting  away.  The  sarcophagus  bears  an  inscription 
in  the  centre,  describing  the  acts  of  the  Doges,  of  which  the 
letters  show  that  it  was  added  a considerable  period  after  the 
I erection  of  the  tomb  : the  original  legend  is  still  left  in  other 
i letters  on  its  base,  to  this  effect, 

“Lord  James,  died  1251.  Lord  Laurence,  died  1288.” 

At  the  two  corners  of  the  sarcophagus  are  two  angels  hearing 
censers ; and  on  its  lid  two  birds,  with  crosses  like  crests  upon 
I their  heads.  For  the  sake  of  the  traveller  in  A^enice  the 
reader  will,  I think,  pardon  me  the  inomentarj  irrelevancy  of 
telling  the  meaning  of  these  symbols. 

§ LI.  The  foundation  of  the  church  of  St.  John  and  Paul 
was  laid  by  the  Dominicans  about  123J,  under  the  immediate 
protection  of  the  Senate  and  the  Doge  Giacomo  Tiepolo, 
accorded  to  them  in  consequence  of  a miraculous  vision 
appearing  to  the  Doge  ; of  which  the  following  account  is 
(given  in  popular  tradition  : 

^ In  the  year  1226,  the  Doge  Giacomo  Tiepolo  dreamed  a 
dream ; and  in  his  dream  he  saw  the  little  oratory  of  the 
Dominicans,  and,  behold,  the  ground  oil  around  it  (now  occm 


THIBD  BEBlOt). 


II.  PBIDE  OV  STATE. 


pied  by  the  church)  was  covered  with  roses  of  the  color  of 
vermilion,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  their  fragrance.  And  in 
the  midst  of  the  roses,  there  were  seen  fiying  to  and  fro  a 
crowd  of  white  doves,  with  golden  crosses  upon  their  heads. 
And  wdiile  the  Doge  looked,  and  wondered,  behold,  two  angels 
descended  from  heaven  with  golden  censers,  and  passing  through 
the  oratory,  and  forth  among  the  fiowers,  they  filled  the 
place  with  the  smoke  of  their  incense.  Then  the  Doge  heard 
suddenly  a clear  and  loud  voice  which  proclaimed,  ^ This  is  the 
place  that  I have  chosen  for  my  preachers  and  having  heard 
it,  straightway  he  awoke  and  went  to  the  Senate,  and 
declared  to  them  the  vision.  Then  the  Senate  decreed  that 
forty  paces  of  ground  should  be  given  to  enlarge  the  monas- 
tery ; and  the  Doge  Tiepolo  himself  made  a still  larger  grant 
afterwards.’’ 

There  is  nothing  miraculous  in  the  occurrence  of  ^uch  a 
dream  as  this  to  the  devout  Doge  ; and  the  fact,  of  which 
there  is  no  doubt,  that  the  greater  part  of  the  land  on  which 
the  church  stands  was  given  by  him,  is  partly  a confirmation 
of  the  story.  But,  whether  the  sculptures  on  the  tomb  were  ; 
records  of  the  vision,  or  the  vision  a monkish  invention  from  ’ 
the  sculptures  on  the  tomb,  the  reader  will  not,  I believe,  look 
j^ipon  its  doves  and  crosses,  or  rudely  carved  angels,  any  more 
with  disdain  ; knowing  how,  in  one  way  or  another,  they  were  ^ 
connected  with  a point  of  deep  religious  belief.  ■ 

§ Lii.  Towards  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century,  / 
in  Venice,  the  recumbent  figure  begins  to  appear  on  thesar-  ^ 
cophagus,  the  first  dated  example  being  also  one  of  the  most  ? 
beautiful ; the  statue  of  the  prophet  Simeon,  sculptured  upon 
the  tomb  wliich  was  to  receive  his  relics  in  the  church  dedi- 
cated to  him  under  the  name  of  San  Simeone  Grande.  So  soon 
as  the  figure  appears,  the  sarcophagus  becomes  much  more 
richly  sculptured,  but  always  with  definite  religious  purpose. 
It  is  usually  divided  into  two  panels,  which  are  filled  with 
small  bas-reliefs  of  the  acts  or  martyrdom  of  the  patron  saints  ^ 
of  the  deceased : between  them,  in  the  centre,  Christ,  or  the 
Virgin  and  Child,  are  richly  enthroned,  under  a curtained  j 


II.  PKIDE  OF  STATE.  II.  KOMAX  KEXAISSAXCE. 


71 


canopy;  and  the  two  figures  representing  tlie  Annunciation 
are  almost  always  at  the  angles  ; the  promise  of  the  Birth  of 
Christ  being  taken  as  at  once  tlie  ground  and  the  type  of  the 
promise  of  eternal  life  to  all  men. 

§ Liii.  These  figures  are  always  in  Venice  most  rudely 
chiselled ; the  progress  of  figure  sculpture  being  there  com- 
paratively tardy.  At  Verona,  where  the  great  Pisan  school 
had  strong  influence,  the  monumental  sculpture  is  immeasura- 
bly finer;  and,  so  early  as  about  the  year  1335,'^  the  consum- 
mate form  of  the  Gothic  tomb  occurs  in  the  monument  of  Can 
Grande  della  Scala  at  Verona.  It  is  set  over  the  portal  of  the 
chapel  anciently  belonging  to  the  family.  The  sarcophagus  is 
sculptured  with  shallow  bas-reliefs,  representing  (which  is  rai*e 
in  the  tombs  with  which  I am  acquainted  in  Italy,  unless  they 
are  those  of  saints)  the  principal  achievements  of  the  warrior’s 
life,  especially  the  siege  of  Vicenza  and  battle  of  Piacenza; 
these  sculptures,  however,  form  little  more  than  a chased  and 
roughened  groundwork  for  the  fully  relieved  statues  repre- 
senting the  Annunciation,  projecting  boldly  from  the  front  of 
the  sarcophagus.  Above,  the  Lord  of  Verona  is  laid  in  his 
long  robe  of  civil  dignity,  wearing  the  simple  bonnet,  con- 
sisting merely  of  a fillet  bound  round  the  brow,  knotted  and 
falling  on  the  shoulder.  He  is  laid  as  asleep  ; his  arms  crossed 
upon  his  body,  and  his  sword  by  his  side.  Above  him,  a bold 
arched  canopy  is  sustained  by  two  projecting  shafts,  and  on 
the  pinnacle  of  its  roof  is  the  statue  of  the  knight  on  his  war- 
horse  ; his  helmet,  dragon-winged  and  crested  with  the  dog’s 
head,  tossed  back  behind  his  shoulders,  and  the  broad  and 
blazoned  drapery  floating  back  from  his  horse’s  breast, — so 
truly  drawn  by  the  old  workman  from  the  life,  that  it  seems 
to  wave  in  the  wind,  and  the  knight’s  spear  to  shake,  and  his 
marble  horse  to  be  evermore  quickening  its  pace,  and  starting 
into  heavier  and  hastier  charge,  as  the  silver  clouds  float  past 
behind  it  in  the  sky. 

* Can  Grande  died  in  1329 : we  can  hardly  allow  more  than  five  years  foi 
the  erection  of  his  tomb. 


72 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


§ LIT.  Now  observe,  in  this  toinb,  as  much  concession  is 
made  to  the  pride  of  man  as  may  ever  consist  with  honor, 
discretion,  or  dignity.  I do  not  enter  into  any  question 
respecting  the  character  of  Can  Grande,  though  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  he  was  one  of  the  best  among  the  nobles  of  i 
his  time ; but  that  is  not  to  our  purpose.  It  is  not  the  ques- 
tion whether  his  wars  were  just,  or  his  greatness  honorably 
achieved  ; but  whether,  supposing  them  to  have  been  so,  these 
facts  are  well  and  gracefully  told  upon  his  tomb.  And  I 
believe  there  can  be  no  hesitation  in  the  admission  of  its  per- 
fect feeling  and  truth.  Though  beautiful,  the  tomb  is  so  little 
conspicuous  or  intrusive,  that  it  serves  only  to  decorate  the 
portal  of  the  little  chapel,  and  is  hardly  regarded  by  the 
traveller  as  he  enters.  When  it  is  examined,  the  history  of 
the  acts  of  the  dead  is  found  subdued  into  dim  and  minute 
ornament  upon  his  coffin;  and  the  principal  aim  of  the  monu- 
ment is  to  direct  the  thoughts  to  his  image  as  he  lies  in  death,  ; 
and  to  the  expression  of  his  hope  of  resurrection  ; while,  seen  | 
as  by  the  memory  far  away,  diminished  in  the  brightness  of 
the  sky,  there  is  set  the  likeness  of  his  armed  youth,  stately,  J 
as  it  stood  of  old,  in  the  front  of  battle,  and  meet  to  be  thus  ' 
recorded  for  us,  that  we  may  now  be  able  to  remember  the 
dignity  of  the  frame,  of  which  those  who  once  looked  upon  it 
hardly  remembered  that  it  was  dust.  ; 

§ LV.  This,  I repeat,  is  as  much  as  may  ever  be  granted,  ^ 
but  this  ought  always  to  be  granted,  to  the  honor  and  the  affec-  j 
tion  of  men.  The  tomb  w^hich  stands  beside  that  of  Can  ; 
Grande,  nearest  it  in  the  little  field  of  sleep,  already  shows  the  ' 
traces  of  erring  ambition.  It  is  the  tomb  of  Mastino  the 
Second,  in  whose  reign  began  the  decline  of  his  family.  It  is 
altogether  exquisite  as  a work  of  art ; and  the  evidence  of  a 
less  wise  or  noble  feeling  in  its  design  is  found  only  in  this, 
that  the  image  of  a virtue.  Fortitude,  as  belonging  to  the  dead, 
is  placed  on  the  extremity  of  the  sarcophagus,  opposite  to  the 
Crucifixion.  But  for  this  slight  circumstance,  of  wdiicli  the 
significance  will  only  be  appreciated  as  we  examine  the  series 
of  later  monuments,  the  composition  of  this  monument  of  Can 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE.  H.  KOMA^ST  REKAISSAKCE.  73 

Mastino  would  have  been  as  perfect  as  its  decoration  is  reiined. 
It  consists,  like  that  of  Can  Grande,  of  tliQ  raised  sarcophagus, 
bearing  the  recumbent  statue,  protected  by  a noble  four-square 
canopy,  sculptured  with  ancient  Scripture  history.  On  one 
side  of  the  sarcophagus  is  Christ  enthroned,  with  Can  Mastino 
kneeling  before  Him ; on  the  other,  Christ  is  ^represented  in 
the  mystical  form,  half-rising  from  the  tomb,  meant,  I believe, 
to  be  at  once  typical  of  His  passion  and  resurrection.  The 
lateral  j>anels  are  occupied  by  statues  of  saints.  At  one  ex- 
tremity of  the  sarcophagus  is  the  Crucifixion ; at  the  other,  a 
noble  statue  of  Fortitude,  with' a lion’s  skin  thrown  over  her 
shoulders,  its  head  forming  a shield  upon  her  breast,  her  flow- 
ing hair  bound  with  a narrow  fillet,  and  a three-edged  sword 
in  her  gauntleted  right  hand,  drawn  back  sternly  behind  her 
thigh,  while,  in  her  left,  she  bears  high  the  shield  of  the  Scalas. 

§ Lvi.  Close  to  this  monument  is  another,  the  stateliest  and 
most  sumptuous  of  the  three ; it  first  arrests  the  eye  of  the 
stranger,  and  long  detains  it, — a many-pinnacled  j^ile  surrounded 
by  niches  with  statues  of  the  warrior  saints. 

It  is  beautiful,  for  it  still  belongs  to  tlie  noble  time,  the 
latter  part  of  the  fourteenth  century ; but  its  work  is  coarser 
than  that  of  the  other,  and  its  pride  may  well  j)i*epare  us  to 
learn  that  it  was  built  for  himself,  in  his  own  lifetime,  by  the 
man  whose  statue  crowns  it.  Can  Signorio  della  Scala.  ^ow 
observe,  for  this  is  infinitely  significant.  Can  Mastino  II.  was 
feeble  and  wicked,  and  began  the  ruin  of  his  house  ; his  sarcoph- 
agus is  the  first  which  bears  upon  it  the  image  of  a virtue, 
but  he  lays  claim  only  to  Fortitude.  Can  Signorio  was  twice 
a fratricide,  the  last  time  when  he  lay  upon  his  death-bed : his 
tomb  bears  u|)on  its  gables  the  images  of  six  virtues, — Faith, 
Hope,  Charity,  Prudence,  and  (I  believe)  Justice  and  Forti- 
tude. 

^ § Lvii.  Let  us  now  return  to  Yenice,  wliere,  in  the  second 
chapel  counting  from  right  to  left,  at  the  west  end  of  the 
Church  of  the  Frari,  there  is  a very  early  fourteenth,  or  per- 
haps late  thirteenth,  century  tomb,  another  exquisite  example 
of  the  perfect  Gothic  form.  It  is  a knight’s ; but  there  is  no 


74 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


inscription  upon  it,  and  his  name  is  unknown.  It  consists  of  a 
sarcophagus,  supported  on  hold  brackets  against  the  chapel 
wall,  bearing  the  recumbent  figure,  protected  by  a simple  can- 
opy in  the  form  of  a pointed  arch,  pinnacled  by  the  knight’s 
crest ; beneath  which  the  shadowy  space  is  painted  dark  blue, 
and  strewn  with  stars.  Tlie  statue  itself  is  rudely  carved  ; but 
its  lines,  as  seen  from  the  intended  distance,  are  both  tender 
and  masterly.  The  knight  is  laid  in  his  mail,  only  the  hands 
and  face  being  bare.  The  hauberk  and  helmet  are  of  chain- 
mail,  the  armor  for  the  limbs  of  jointed  steel ; a tunic,  fitting 
close  to  the  breast,  and  marking  the  noble  swell  of  it  by  two 
narrow  embroidered  lines,  is  worn  over  the  mail ; his  dagger  is 
at  his  right  side  ; his  long  cross-belted  sword,  not  seen  by  the 
spectator  from  below,  at  his  left.  His  feet  rest  on  a hound 
(the  hound  being  his  crest),  which  looks  up  towards  its  master. 
In  general,  in  tombs  of  this  kind,  the  face  of  the  statue  is 
slightly  turned  towards  the  s|iectator ; in  this  monument,  on 
the  contrary,  it  is  turned  away  from  him,  towards  the  depth  of 
the  arch : for  there,  just  above  the  warrior’s  breast,  is  carved  a 
small  image  of  St.  Joseph  bearing  the  infant  Christ,  who  looks 
down  upon  the  resting  figure  ; and  to  this  image  its  counte- 
nance is  turned.  The  appearance  of  the  entire  tomb  is  as  if 
the  warrior  had  seen  the  vision  of  Christ  in  his  dying  moments, 
and  had  fallen  back  peacefully  uppon  his  pillow,  with  his  eyes 
still  turned  to  it,  and  his  hands  clasped  in  prayer. 

§ Lviii.  On  the  opposite  side  of  this  chapel  is  another  very 
lovely  tomb,  to  Duccio  degli  Alberti,  a Florentine  ambassador 
at  Venice;  noticeable  chiefiy  as  being  the  first  in  Venice  on 
which  any  images  of  the  Virtues  appear.  We  shall  return  to  it 
presently,  but  some  account  must  first  be  given  of  the  more 
important  among  the  other  tombs  in  Venice  belonging  to  the 
perfect  period.  Of  these,  by  far  the  most  interesting,  though 
not  the  most  elaborate,  is  that  of  the  great  Doge  Francesco 
Dandolo,  whose  ashes,  it  might  have  been  thought,  were  honor- 
able enough  to  have  been  permitted  to  rest  undisturbed  in  the 
(‘hapter-house  of  the  Frari,  where  they  were  first  laid.  But, 
as  if  there  were  not  room  enough,  nor  waste  houses  enough  in 


TI.  PRIDE  OF  STATE.  II.  ROMAi^  REi^AISSAi^CE.  75 

the  desolate  city  to  receive  a few  convent  papers,  the  monks, 
wanting  an  ‘‘archivio,’’  have  separated  the  tomb  into  three 
pieces:  the  canopy,  a simple  arch  sustained  on  brackets,  still 
remains  on  the  blank  walls  of  the  desecrated  chamber;  the 
sarcophagus  has  been  transported  to  a kind  of  museum  of  an- 
tiquities, established  in  what  was  once  the  cloister  of  Santa 
Maria  della  Salute ; and  the  painting  which  filled  the  lunette; 
behind  it  is  hung  far  out  of  sight,  at  one  end  of  the  sacristy  of 
the  same  church.  The  sarcophagus  is  completely  charged  with 
bas-reliefs : at  its  two  extremities  are  the  types  of  St.  Mark 
and  St.  John ; in  front,  a noble  sculpture  of  the  death  of 
the  Virgin;  at  the  angles,  angels  holding  vases.  The  whole 
space  is  occupied  by  the  sculpture ; there  are  no  spiral  shafts 
or  panelled  divisions ; only  a basic  plinth  below,  and  crown- 
ing plinth  above,  the  sculpture  being  raised  from  a deep  con- 
cave field  between  the  two,  but,  in  order  to  give  piquancy  and 
picturesqueness  to  the  mass  of  figures,  two  small  trees  are  in- 
troduced at  the  head  and  foot  of  the  Madonna’s  couch,  an  oak 
and  a stone  pine. 

§ Lix.  It  was  said  above,^  in  speaking  of  the  frequent  dis- 
putes of  the  Venetians  wdth  the  Pontifical  power,  which  in 
their  early  days  they  had  so  strenuously  supported,  that  the 
humiliation  of  Francesco  Dandolo  blotted  out  the  shame  of 
Barbarossa.”  It  is  indeed  well  that  the  two  events  should  be 
remembered  together.  By  the  help  of  the  Venetians,  Alexan- 
der III.  was  enabled,  in  the  twelfth  century,  to  put  his  foot 
upon  the  neck  of  the  empei’or  Barbarossa,  quoting  the  words 
of  the  Psalm,  Thou  shalt  tread  upon  the  lion  and  the  adder.” 
A hundred  and  fifty  years  later,  the  Venetian  ambassador, 
Francesco  Dandolo,  unable  to  obtain  even  an  audience  from 
the  Pope,  Clement  V.,  to  whom  he  had  been  sent  to  pray  for 
a removal  of  the  sentence  of  excommunication  pronounced 
against  the  republic,  concealed  himself  (according  to  the  com- 
mon tradition)  beneath  the  Pontiff’s  dining-table ; and  thence 
coming  out  as  he  sat  down  to  meat,  embraced  his  feet,  and  ob- 


Yol.  I,  Cliap.  I, 


76 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


tained,  by  tearful  entreaties,  the  removal  of  the  terrible  sen- 
tence. 

I say,  ‘^according  to  the  common  tradition  for  there  are 
some  doubts  cast  upon  the  story  by  its  supplement.  Most  of 
the  Venetian  historians  assert  that  Francesco  Dandolo’s  sur-" 
name  of  Dog”  was  given  him  first  on  this  occasion,  in  insult, 
by  the  cardinals  ; and  that  the  Venetians,  in  remembrance  of 
the  grace  which  his  humiliation  had  won  for  them,  made  it  a 
title  of  honor  to  him  and  to  his  race.  It  has,  however,  been 
proved'^  that  the  surname  was  borne  by  the  ancestors  of 
Francesco  Dandolo  Jong  before ; and  the  falsity  of  this  seal 
of  the  legend  renders  also  its  circumstances  doubtful.  But  the 
main  fact  of  grievous  humiliation  having  been  undergone, 
admits  of  no  dispute;  the  existence  of  such  a tradition  at  all 
is  in  itself  a proof  of  its  truth ; it  was  not  one  likely  to  be 
either  invented  or  received  without  foundation:  and  it  will  be 
well,  therefore,  that  the  reader  should  remember,  in  connection 
with  the  treatment  of  Barbarossa  at  the  door  of  the  Church 
of  St.  Mark’s,  that  in  the  Vatican,  one  hundred  and  fifty 
years  later,  a Venetian  noble,  a future  Doge,  submitted  to  a 
degradation,  of  which  the  current  report  among  his  people 
was,  that  he  had  crept  on  his  hands  and  knees  from  beneath 
the  Pontiff’s  table  to  his  feet,  and  had  been  spurned  as  a dog” 
by  the  cardinals  present. 

§ LX.  There  are  two  principal  conclusions  to  be  drawn  from 
this  : the  obvious  one  respecting  the  insolence  of  the  Papal 
dominion  in  the  thirteenth  century  ; the  second,  that  there 
were  probably  most  deep  piety  and  humility  in  the  character 
of  the  man  who  could  submit  to  this  insolence  for  the  sake  of 
a benefit  to  his  country.  Probably  no  motive  would  have 
been  strong  enough  to  obtain  such  a sacrifice  fi*om  most  men, 
however  unselfish ; but  it  was,  without  doubt,  made  easier  to 
Dandolo  by  his  profound  reverence  for  the  Pontifical  office ; a 
reverence  which,  however  loe  may  now  esteem  those  who 
claimed  it,  could  not  l)ut  have  been  felt  by  nearly  all  good  and 


^ Baiisovino,  lib.  xiii. 


II.  PlilDE  OF  STATE.  II.  ROMAIs  llENAISSANCE. 


77 


faitlifiil  men  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  speaking.  This  is 
the  main  point  which  I wish  the  reader  to  remember  as  w^e 
look  at  his  tomb,  this,  and  the  result  of  it, — that,  some  years 
afterwards,  when  he  was  seated  on  the  throne  wdiich  his  piety 
had  saved,  there  were  sixty  princes’  ambassadors  in  Venice 
at  the  same  time,  requesting  the  judgment  of  the  Senate  on 
matters  of  various  concernment,  so  great  was  the  fame  of  the 
uncorrupted  justice  of  the  Fathers P 

Observe,  there  are  no  virtues  on  this  tomb.  Nothing  but 
religious  history  or  symbols ; the  Death  of  the  Virgin  in  front, 
and  the  types  of  St.  Mark  and  St.  John  at  the  extremities. 

§ Lxi.  Of  the  tomb  «of  the  Doge  Andrea  Dandolo,  in  St. 
Mark’s,  I Iwe  spoken  before.  It  is  one  of  the  first  in  Venice 
whicli  i^resents,  in  a canopy,  the  Pisan  idea  of  angels  with- 
drawing curtains,  as  of  a couch,  to  look  down  upon  the  dead. 
The  sarcophagus  is  richly  decorated  with  fiower-work ; the 
usual  figures  of  the  Annunciation  are  at  the  sides  ; an  en- 
throned Madonna  in  the  centre ; and  two  bas-reliefs,  one  of 
the  martyrdom  of  the  Doge’s  patron  saint,  St.  Andrew,  occupy 
the  intermediate  spaces.  All  these  tombs  have  been  richly 
colored;  the  hair  of  the  angels  has  here  been  gilded,  their 
wings  bedropped  with  silver,  and  their  garments  covered  witli 
the  most  exquisite  arabesques.  This  tomb,  and  that  of  St. 
Isidore  in  another  chapel  of  St.  Mark’s,  whicli  w^as  begun  by 
this  very  Doge,  Andrea  Dandolo,  and  completed  after  his 
death  in  1354,  are  both  nearly  alike  in  their  treatment,  and 
are,  on  the  whole,  the  best  existing  examples  of  Venetian 
monumental  scul]3ture. 

§ EXIT.  Of  much  ruder  w^orkmanship,  though  still  most  pre- 
cious, and  singularly , interesting  from  its  quaintness,  is  a sar- 
cophagus in  the  northernmost  chapel,  beside  the  choir  of  St. 
John  and  Paul,  charged  with  two  bas-reliefs  and  many  figures, 
but  Avhich  bears  no  inscription.  It  has,  however,  a shield  with 
three  dolphins  on  its  brackets ; and  as  at  the  feet  of  the  Madonna 
in  its  centre  there  is  a small  kneeling  figure  of  a Doge,  we  know 


* Tentori,  vi.  142,  i.  157. 


78 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


it  to  be  the  tomb  of  the  Doge  Giovanni  Dolfino,  who  came  to 
the  throne  in  1356. 

He  was  chosen  Doge  while,  as  provveditore,  he  was  in  T]*e- 
viso,  defending  the  city  against  the  King  of  Hungary.  The 
Venetians  sent  to  the  besiegers,  praying  that  their  newly 
elected  Doge  might  be  permitted  to  pass  the  Hungarian  lines. 
Their  request  was  refused,  the  Hungarians  exulting  that  they 
held  the  Doge  of  Venice  prisoner  in  Treviso.  But  Dolfino, 
with  a body  of  two  hundred  horse,  cut  his  way  through  their 
lines  by  night,  and  reached  Mestre  (Malghera)  in  safety,  where 
he  was  met  by  the  Senate.  His  bravery  could  not  avert  the 
misfortunes  which  w^ere  accumulating  on  the  republic.  The 
Hungarian  war  was  ignorniniously  terminated  by  the  surrender 
of  Dalmatia : the  Doge’s  heart  was  broken,  his  eyesight 
failed  him,  and  he  died  of  the  plague  four  years  after  he  had 
ascended  the  throne. 

§ Lxiii.  It  is  perhaps  on  this  account,  perhaps  in  conse- 
quence of  later  injuries,  that  the  tomb  has  neither  effigy  nor 
inscription  : that  it  has  been  subjected  to  some  violence  is 
evident  from  the  dentil  wdiich  once  crowned  its  leaf-cornice 
being  now  broken  aw^ay,  showing  the  whole  front.  But, 
fortunately,  the  sculpture  of  the  sarcophagus  itself  is  little 
injured. 

There  are  two  saints,  male  and  female,  at  its  angles,  each 
in  a little  niche ; a Christ,  enthroned  in  the  centre,  the  Doge 
and  Dogaressa  kneeling  at  his  feet ; in  the  two  intermediate 
panels,  on  one  side  the  Epiphany,  on  the  other  the  Death  of 
the  Virgin;  the  whole  supported,  as  well  as  crowned,  by  an 
elaborate  leaf-plinth.  Tlie  figures  under  the  niches  are  rudely 
cut,  and  of  little  interest.  Not  so  the- central  group.  Instead 
of  a niche,  the  Christ  is  seated  under  a square  tent,  or  taber- 
nacle, formed  by  curtains  running  on  rods ; the  idea,  of 
course,  as  usual,  borrowed  from  the  Pisan  one,  but  here  in- 
geniously applied.  The  curtains  are  opened  in  front,  showing 
those  at  the  back  of  the  tent,  behind  the  seated  figure ; the 
perspective  of  the  two  retiring  sides  being  very  tolerably  sug- 


IT.  PRIDE  OF  STATE.  H.  HOINEAK  REXAISSAXCTk 


'9 


gested.  Two  angels,  of  half  the  size  of  the  seated  tigiire, 
thrust  back  the  near  curtains,  and  lookup  reverently  to  the 
Christ ; while  again,  at  their  feet,  about  one  third  of  their 
size,  and  half -sheltered,  as  it  seems,  by  their  garments,  are  the 
two  kneeling  figures  of  the  Doge  and  Dogaressa,  though  so 
small  and  carefully  cut,  full  of  life.  The  Christ  raising  one 
hand  as  to  bless,  and  holding  a book  upright  and  open  on  the 
knees,  does  not  look  either  towards  them  or  to  the  angels,  but 
forward ; and  there  is  a very  noticeable  effort  to  represent 
Divine  abstraction  in  the  countenance  : the  idea  of  the  three 
magnitudes  of  spiritual  being, — the  God,  the  Angel,  and  the 
Man, — is  also  to  be  observed,  aided  as  it  is  by  the  complete 
subjection  of  the  angelic  power  to  the  Divine;  for  the  angels 
are  in  attitudes  of  the  most  lowly  watchfulness  of  the  face  of 
Christ,  and  appear  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  the  human 
beings  who  are  nestled  in  the  folds  of  their  garments. 

§ Lxiv.  With  this  interesting  but  modest  tomb  of  one  of 
the  kings  of  Venice,  it  is  desirable  to  compare  that  of  one  of 
her  senators,  of  exactly  the  same  date,  which  is  raised  against 
the  western  wall  of  the  Frari,  at  the  end  of  the  north  aisle.  It 
bears  the  following  remarkable  inscription : 

"'Anno  MC  C CL  X.  proia  die  Julii  Sepultura  . Domini  . Simonii 

DaNDOLO  . AMADOR  . DE  . JUSTISIA  . E . DESIROSO  . DE  . ACRESE  . 

EL  . BEN  . CHOMUM.” 

The  Amador  de  Justitia”  has  perhaps  some  reference  to 
Simon  Dandolo’s  having  been  one  of  the  Giunta  who  con- 
demned the  Doge  Faliero.  The  sarcophagus  is  decorated 
merely  by  the  Annunciation  group,  and  an  enthroned  Madonna 
with  a curtain  behind  her  throne,  sustained  by  four  tiny  angels, 
who  look  over  it  as  they  hold  it  up ; but  the  workmanship  of 
the  figures  is  more  than  usually  beautiful. 

§ Lxv.  Seven  years  later,  a very  noble  monument  was  placed 
on  the  north  side  of  the  choir  of  St.  John  and  Paul,  to  the 
Doge  Marco  Cornaro,  chiefly,  with  respect  to  our  present  sub- 
ject, noticeable  for  the  absence  of  religious  imagery  from  the 


80 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


II.  PIUDE  OF  STATE. 


sarcophagus,  which  is  decorated  with  roses  only ; three  very 
beautiful  statues  of  the  Madonna  and  two  saints  are,  however, 
set  in  the  canopy  above.  Opposite  this  tomb,  though  about 
fifteen  years  later  in  date,  is  tlie  richest  monument  of  the 
Gothic  period  in  Venice;  that  of  the  Doge  Michele  Morosini, 
who  died  in  1382.  It  consists  of  a highly  florid  canopy, — an 
arch  crowned  by  a gable,  with  |)innacles  at  the  flanks,  boldly 
crocheted,  and  with  a huge  finial  at  the  top  representing  St. 
Michael, — a medallion  of  Christ  set  in  the  gable  ; under  the 
arch,  a mosaic,  representing  the  Madonna  presenting  the  Doge 
to  Christ  upon  the  cross  ; beneath,  as  usual,  the  sarcophagus, 
with  a most  noble  recumbent  figure  of  the  Doge,  his  face 
meagre  and  severe,  and  sharp  in  its  lines,  but  exquisite  in  the 
form  of  its  small  and  princely  features.  The  sarcophagus  is 
adorned  with  elaborate  wrinkled  leafage,  projecting  in  front 
of  it  into  seven  brackets,  from  which  the  statues  are  broken 
away ; but  by  which,  for  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  these  last 
statues  represented  the  theological  and  cardinal  Virtues,  we 
must  for  a moment  pause. 

§ Lxvi.  It  was  noticed  above,  that  the  tomb  of  the  Florem 
tine  ambassadoi’,  Duccio,  was  the  first  in  Venice  which  pre- 
sented images  of  the  Virtues.  Its  small  lateral  statues  of 
Justice  and  Temperance  are  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  were,  I 
have  no  doubt,  executed  by  a Florentine  sculptor ; the  whole 
range  of  artistical  power  and  religious  feeling  being,  in  Flor- 
ence, full  half  a century  in  advance  of  that  of  Venice.  But 
this  is  the  first  truly  Venetian  tomb  which  has  the  Virtues; 
and  it  becomes  of  importance,  therefore,  to  know  what  was 
the  character  of  Morosini. 

The  reader  must  recollect,  that  I dated  the  commencement 
of  the  fall  of  Venice  from  the  death  of  Carlo  Zeno,  consider- 
ing that  no  state  could  be  held  as  in  decline,  which  numbered 
such  a man  amongst  its  citizens.  Carlo  Zeno  was  a candidate 
for  the  Ducal  bonnet  together  with  Michael  Morosini ; and 
Morosini  was  chosen.  It  might  be  anticipated,  therefore,  that 
there  was  something  more  than  usually  admirable  or  illustrious 
in  his  character.  Yet  it  is  difficult  to  arrive  at  a just  estimate 


IT.  PKT])E  OP  STATE.  II.  KOMAK  KEKAISSAKCE. 


81 


of  it,  as  the  reader  will  at  once  understand  by  comparing  the 
following  statements  : 

§ Lxvii.  1.  “To  him  (Andrea  Contarini)  succeeded  Morosini,  at  the  age 
of  sevent}^-four  years ; a most  learned  and  prudent  man,  who  also  reformed 
several  laws.  ” — Sansovino,  Yite  de’  Principi. 

2.  “It  was  generally  believed  that,  if  his  reign  had  been  longer,  he 
would  have  dignified  the  state  by  many  noble  laws  and  institutes;  but  by 
so  much  as  his  reign  was  full  of  hope,  by  as  much  was  it  short  in  duration, 
for  lie  died  when  he  had  been  at  the  head  of  the  republic  but  four  months.” 
— Sahellico,  lib.  viii. 

3.  “ He  was  allowed  but  a short  time  to  enjoy  this  high  dignity,  which 

he  had  so  well  deserved  by  his  rare  virtues,  for  God  called  him  to  Himself 
on  the  15th  of  October.  Annali  de’  Italia. 

4.  “ Two  candidates  presented  themselves  ; one  was  Zeno,  the  other  that 
Michael  Morosini  who,  during  the  war,  had  tripled  his  fortune  by  his 
speculations.  The  suffrages  of  the  electors  fell  upon  him,  and  he  was  pro- 
claimed Doge  on  the  10th  of  June.”— Dctrw,  Histoire  de  Yenise,  lib.  x. 

5.  “ The  choice  of  the  electors  was  directed  to  Michele  Morosini,  a noble 
of  illustrious  birth,  derived  from  a stock  which,  coeval  with  the  republic 
itself,  had  produced  the  conqueror  of  Tyre,  given  a queen  to  Hungary, 
and  more  than  one  Doge  to  Yenice.  The  brilliancy  of  this  descent  was 
tarnished  in  the  present  chief  representative  of  the  family  by  the  most 
base  and  grovelling  avarice  ; for  at  that  moment,  in  the  recent  war,  at 
wliich  all  other  Yenetians  were  devoting  their  whole  fortunes  to  the  service 
of  the  state,  Morosini  nought  in  the  distresses  of  his  country  an  opening  for 
his  own  private  enrichment,  and  employed  his  ducats,  not  in  the  assistance 
of  tlie  national  wants,  but  in  speculating  upon  houses  which  were  brought 
to  market  at  a price  far  beneath  their  real  value,  and  which,  upon  the 
return  of  peace,  insured  the  purchaser  a fourfold  profit.  ‘ Wliat  matters 
the  fall  of  Yenice  to  me,  so  as  I fall  not  together  with  her  ? ’ was  his 
selfish  and  sordid  reply  to  some  one  who  expressed  surprise  at  the  trans- 
action.”— Sketches  of  Venetian  History.  Murray,  1831. 

§ Lxviii.  The  writer  of  the  impretending  little  history  from 
which  the  last  quotation  is  taken  has  not  given  his  authority 
for  this  statement,  and  I could  not  find  it,  but  believed,  frotii 
the  general  accuracy  of  the  book,  that  some  authority  might 
exist  better  than  Darn’s.  • Under  these  circumstances,  wishing 
if  possible  to  ascertain  the  truth,  and  to  clear  the  character  of 
this  great  Doge  from  the  accusation,  if  it  proved  groundless, 
I wrote  to  the  Count  Carlo  Morosini,  his  descendant,  and  one 
of  the  few  remaining  representatives  of  the  ancient  noblesse 


82 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


IT.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


of  Venice  ; one,  also,  by  whom  his  great  ancestral  name  is 
i-evered,  and  in  whom  it  is  exalted.  His  answer  appears  to 
me  altogether  conclusive  as  to  the  utter  fallacy  of  the  reports 
of  Darn  and  the  English  history.  I have  placed  his  letter  in 
the  close  of  this  volume  (Appendix  6),  in  order  that  the  reader 
may  himself  be  the  judge  upon  this  point ; and  I should  not 
have  alluded  to  Dam’s  report,  except  for  the  purpose  of  con- 
tradicting it,  but  that  it  still  appears  to  me  impossible  that 
any  modern  historian  should  have  gratuitously  invented  the 
whole  story,  and  that,  therefore,  there  must  have  been  a trace 
in  the  documents  which  Darn  himself  possessed,  of  some  scan- 
dal of  this  kind  raised  by  Morosini’s  enemies,  perhaps  at  the 
very  time  of  the  disputed  election  with  Carlo  Zeno.  Tlie 
occurrence  of  the  Virtues  upon  his  tomb,  for  the  first  time  in 
Venetian  monumental  work,  and  so  richly  and  conspicuously 
placed,  may  partly  have  been  in  public  contradiction  of  sucli 
a floating  rumor.  But  tlie  face  of  the  statue  is  a more  explicit 
contradiction  still;  it  is  resolute,  thoughtful,  serene,  and  full 
of  beauty  ; and  we  must,  therefore,  for  once,  allow  the  some- 
what boastful  introduction  of  the  Virtues  to  have  been  per- 
fectly just : though  the  whole  tomb  is  most  notable,  as  fur- 
nishing not  only  the  exact  intermediate  condition  in  style 
between  the  pure  Gothic  and  its  final  Renaissance  corruption, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  the  exactly  intermediate  condition  of 
feelhig  between  the  pure  calmness  of  early  Christianity,  and 
tlie  boastful  pomp  of  tlie  Renaissance  faithlessness  ; for  here 
we  have  still  the  religious  humility  remaining  in  the  mosaic 
of  the  canopy,  which  shows  the  Doge  kneeling  before  the 
cross,  while  yet  this  tendency  to  self-trust  is  shown  in  the  sur- 
rounding of  the  coffin  by  the  Virtues. 

§ Lxix.  The  next  tomb  by  the  side  of  which  they  appear  is 
that  of  Jacopo  Cavalli,  in  the  same  chapel  of  St.  John  and  Paul 
which  contains  the  tomb  of  the  Doge  Delfin.  It  is  peculiarly 
rich  in  religious  imagery,  adorned  by  boldly  cut  ty23es  of  the 
four  evangelists,  and  of  two  saints,  while,  on  projecting 
brackets  in  front  of  it,  stood  three  statues  of  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity,  now  lost,  but  drawn  in  Zanotto’s  work.  It  is  all  rich 


tt.  rniDE  OP  STATE.  II.  HOMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


83 


in  detail,  and  its  sculptor  lias  been  proud  of  it,  thus  recording 
his  name  below  tlie  epitaph  : 

“ Qst  opera  dintalgio  e fatto  in  piera, 

Unvenician  lafe  chanome  Polo, 

Nato  di  Jaciiomel  ciiataiapiera.  ” 

This  work  of  sculpture  is  done  in  stone; 

A Venetian  did  it,  named  Paul, 

Son  of  Jaclioinel  the  stone- cutter. 

Jacopo  Oavalli  died  in  138-i.  He  was  a bold  and  activ^e 
Veronese  soldier,  did  the  state  much  service,  Avas  therefore 
ennobled  by  it,  and  became  the  founder  of  tlie  house  of  the 
Cavalli ; but  I tind  no  especial  reason  for  the  images  of  the 
Virtues,  especially  that  of  Charity,  appearing  at  his  tomb, 
unless  it  be  this  : that  at  the  siege  of  Feltre,  in  the  war  against 
Leopold  of  Austria,  he  refused  to  assault  the  city,  because  the 
senate  Avould  not  grant  his  soldiers  the  pillage  of  the  toAvn. 
The  feet  of  the  recumbent  figure,  which  is  in  full  armor,  rest 
on  a dog,  and  its  head  on  tAvo  lions  ; and  these  animals  (neither 
of  which  form  any  part  of  the  knight’s  bearings)  are  said  by 
Zanotto  to  be  intended  to  symbolize  his  bravery  and  fidelity. 
If,  however,  the  lions  are  meant  to  set  forth  courage,  it  is  a 
pity  they  sliould  have  been  represented  as  hoAvling. 

/ § Lxx.  We  must  next  pause  for  an  instant  beside  the  tomb 
p/i  Michael  Steno,  now  in  the  northern  aisle  of  St.  John  and 
Paul,  having  been  removed  there  from  the  destroyed  church 
of  the  Servi : first,  to  note  its  remarkable  return  to  the  early 
simplicity,  the  sarcophagus  being  decorated  only  with  two 
crosses  in  quatrefoils,  though  it  is  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
Steno  dying  in  1413 ; and,  in  the  second  place,  to  observe  the 
peculiarity  of  the  epitaph,  which  eulogises  Steno  as  having 
been  amator  justitie,  pads,  et  ubertatis,”  ^‘a  lover  of  justice, 
peace,  and  plenty.”  In  the  epitaphs  of  this  period,  the  virtues 
Avhich  are  made  most  account  of  in  public  men  are  those  A\diich 
Avere  most  useful  to  their  country.  We  have  already  seen  one 
example  in  the  epitaph  on  Simon  Dandolo  ; and  similar  expres- 
sions occur  constantly  in  laudatory  mentions  of  their  later 


84 


THIRD  PRRIOI). 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


Doges  by  the  Venetian  writers.  Thus  Sansovino  of  Marco 
Cornaro,  Era  savio  liuomo,  eloquente,  e amava  molto  la 
pace  e 1’  abbondanza  della  citta and  of  Tomaso  Mocenigo, 
Huomo  oltre  modo  desideroso  della  pace.” 

Of  the  tomb  of  this  last-named  Doge  mention  has  before 
been  made.  Here,  as  in  Morosini’s,  the  images  of  the  Virtues 
have  no  ironical  power,  although  their  great  conspicuous- 
ness  marks  the  increase  of  the  boastful  feeling  in  the  treat- 
ment of  monuments.  For  the  rest,  tliis  tomb  is  tlie  last  in 
Venice  which  can  be  considered  as  belonging  to  the  Gothic 
period.  Its  mouldings  are  already  rudely  classical,  and  it  has 
meaningless  figures  in  Roman  armor  at  the  angles ; but  its 
tabernacle  above  is  still  Gothic,  and  the  recumbent  figure  is 
very  beautiful.  It  was  carved  by  two  Florentine  Sculptors  in 
1423. 

§ Lxxi.  Tomaso  Mocenigo  was  succeeded  by  the  renowned 
Doge,  Francesco  Foscari,  under  whom,  it  will  be  remembered, 
the  last  additions  were  made  to  the  Gothic  Ducal  Palace ; 
additions  which,  in  form  only,  not  in  spirit,  corresponded  to 
the  older  portions ; since,  during  his  reign,  tlie  transition  took 
place  which  permits  us  no  longer  to  consider  the  Venetian 
architecture  as  Gothic  at  all.  He  died  in  1457,  and  his  tomb 
is  the  first  important  example  of  Renaissance  art. 

Hot,  however,  a good  characteristic  example.  It  is  re- 
markable chiefly  as  introducing  all  the  faults  of  the  Renaissance 
at  an  early  period,  when  its  merits,  such  as  they  are,  were  yet 
undeveloped.  Its  claim  to  be  rated  as  a classical  composition 
is  altogether  destroyed  by  the  remnants  of  Gotliic  feeling 
which  cling  to  it  here  and  there  in  their  last  forms  of  degi'a- 
dation ; and  of  which,  now  that  we  find  them  thus  corrupted, 
tlie  sooner  we  are  rid  the  better.  Thus  the  sarcophagus  is 
supported  by  a species  of  trefoil  arches ; the  bases  of  the 
shafts  have  still  their  spurs  ; and  the  whole  tomb  is  covered 
by  a pediment,  with  crockets  and  a pinnacle.  We  shall  find 
that  the  perfect  Renaissance  is  at  least  pure  in  its  insipidity, 
and  subtle  in  its  vice  ; but  this  monument  is  remarkable  as 
showing  the  refuse  of  one  style  encumbering  the  embryo  of 


tl.  riUDE  OF  STATE.  II.  KOMAK  REXA1SSAKC£. 


85 


aiiotlier,  and  all  j)riiiciples  of  life  entangled  either  in  the  swad- 
dling clothes,  or  the  shroud. 

§ Lxxii.  With  respect  to  our  present  purpose,  however,  it 
is  a monument  of  enormous  importance.  We  have  to  trace, 
be  it  remembered,  the  pride  of  state  in  its  gradual  intrusion 
upon  the  sepulchre ; and  the  consequent  and  correlative  van- 
ishing of  the  expressions  of  religious  feeling  and  heavenly 
hope,  together  with  the  more  and  more  arrogant  setting  forth 
of  the  virtues  of  the  dead.  Now  this  tomb  is  the  largest  and 
most  costly  we  have  yet  seen  ; but  its  means  of  religious 
expression  are  limited  to  a single  statue  of  Christ,  small  and 
used  merely  as  a pinnacle  at  the  top.  The  rest  of  the  com- 
position is  as  curious  as  it  is  vulgar.  The  conceit,  so  often 
noticed  as  having  been  borrowed  from  the  Pisan  school,  of 
angels  withdrawing  the  curtains  of  the  couch  to  look  down 
upon  the  dead,  was  brought  forward  with  increasing  promi- 
nence by  every  succeeding  sculptor;  but,  as  we  draw  nearer 
to  the  Kenaissance  period,  we  find  that  the  angels  become  of 
less  impoifance,  and  the  curtains  of  more.  With  the  Pisans, 
the  curtains  are  introduced  as  a motive  for  the  angels ; with 
the  Renaissance  sculptors,  the  angels  are  introduced  merely 
as  a motive  for  the  curtains,  which  become  every  day  more 
huge  and  elaborate.  In  the  monument  of  Mocenigo,  they 
have  already  expanded  into  a tent,  with  a pole  in  the  centre 
of  it : and  in  that  of  Foscari,  for  the  first  time,  the  angels  are 
absent  altogether  * while  the  curtains  are  arranged  in  the  foian 
of  an  enormous  French  tent-bed,  and  are  sustained  at  the 
flanks  by  two  diminutive  figures  in  Roman  armor  ; substituted 
for  the  angels,  merely  that  the  sculptor  might  show  his  hioid- 
edge  of  classical  costume.  And  now  observe  how  often  a 
fault  in  feeling  induces  also  a fault  in  style.  In  the  old  tombs, 
the  angels  used  to  stand  on  or  by  the  side  of  the  sarcophagus ; 
but  their  places  are  here  to  be  occupied  by  the  Virtues,  and 
tlierefore,  to  sustain  the  diminutive  Roman  figures  at  the 
necessary  height,  each  has  a whole  Corinthian  pillar  to  him- 
self, a pillar  whose  shaft  is  eleven  feet  high,  and  some  three 
or  four  feet  roun^d  : and  because  this  was  not  high  enough,  it 


8G 


THIlib  PERIOD. 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


is  put  on  a pedestal  four  feet  and  a half  high  ; and  has  a 
spurred  base  besides  of  its  own,  a tall  capital,  then  a huge 
bracket  above  the  capital,  and  then  another  pedestal  above  the 
bracket,  and  on  the  top  of  all  the  diminutive  figure  who  has 
charge  of  the  curtains. 

§ Lxxiii.  Under  the  canopy,  thus  arranged,  is  placed  the 
sarcophagus  with  its  recumbent  figure.  The  statues  of  the 
Virgin  and  the  saints  have  disappeared  from  it.  In  their 
stead,  its  panels  are  filled  with  half-length  figures  of  Faith, 
Hope,  and  Charity;  while  Temperance  and  Fortitude  are  at 
the  Doge’s  feet.  Justice  and  Prudence  at  his  head,  figures  now 
the  size  of  life,  yet  nevertheless  recognizable  only  by  their 
attributes : for,  except  that  Hope  raises  her  eyes,  there  is  no 
difference  in  the  character  or  expression  of  any  of  their  faces, 
— they  are  nothing  more  than  handsome  Venetian  women,  in 
rather  full  and  courtly  dresses,  and  tolerably  well  thrown  into 
postures  for  effect  from  below.  Fortitude  could  not  of  course 
be  placed  in  a graceful  one  without  some  sacrifice  of  her  char- 
acter, but  that  was  of  no  consequence  in  the  eyes  of  the 
sculptors  of  this  period,  so  she  leans  back  languidly,  and 
nearly  overthrows  her  own  column ; while  Temperance,  and 
Justice  opposite  to  her,  as  neither  the  left  hand  of  the  one 
nor  the  right  hand  of  the  other  could  be  seen  from  below, 
have  been  left  with  one  hand  each. 

§ Lxxiv.  Still  these  figures,  coarse  and  feelingless  as  they 
are,  have  been  worked  with  care,  because  the  principal  effect 
of  the  tomb  depends  on  them.  But  the  effigy  of  the  Doge, 
of  wdiich  nothing  but  the  side  is  visible,  has  been  utterly  neg- 
lected ; and  the  ingenuity  of  the  sculptor  is  not  so  great,  at 
the  best,  as  that  he  can  afford  to  be  slovenly.  There  is,  indeed, 
nothing  in  the  history  of  Foscari  which  would  lead  us  to 
expect  anything  particularly  noble  in  his  face ; but  I trust, 
nevertheless,  it  has  been  misrepresented  by  this  despicable 
carver  ; for  no  words  are  strong  enough  to  express  the  base- 
ness of  the  portraiture.  A huge,  gross,  bony  clown’s  face, 
with  the  peculiar  sodden  and  sensual  cunning  in  it  which  is 
seen  so  often  in  the  countenances  of  the  worst  Romanist 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE.  II-  ROilAK  RENAISSANCE. 


87 


priest ; a face  part  of  iron  and  part  of  clay,  with  the  iinino- 
bility  of  the  one,  and  the  foulness  of  the  other,  double  cliinned, 
blunt-monthed,  bony-cheeked,  with  its  brows  drawn  down 
into  meagre  lines  and  wrinkles  over  the  eyelids  ; the  face  of  a 
man  incapable  either  of  joy  or  sorrow,  unless  such  as  may  be 
caused  by  the  indulgence  of  passion,  or  the  mortification  of 
pride.  Even  had  he  been  such  a one,  a noble  workman  wmuld 
not  have  written  it  so  legibly  on  his  tomb  ; and  I believe  it  to  be 
I the  image  of  the  carver’s  own  mind  that  is  there  hewm  in  the 
I marble,  not  that  of  the  Doge  Foscari.  For  the  same  mind  is 
[ visible  enough  throughout,  the  traces  of  it  mingled  with  those 
i of  the  evil  taste  of  the  whole  time  and  people.  There  is  not 
! anything  so  small  but  it  is  shown  in  some  portion  of  its  treat- 
ment ; for  instance,  in  the  placing  of  the  shields  at  the  back  of 
the  great  curtain.  In  earlier  times,  the  shield,  as  we  have 
seen,  was  represented  as  merely  suspended  against  the  tomb  by 
a thong,  or  if  sustained  in  any  other  manner,  still  its  form  was 
simple  and  undisguised.  Men  in  those  days  used  their  shields 
, in  war,  and  therefore  there  was  no  need  to  add  dignity  to  their 
form  by  external  ornament.  That  which,  through  day  after 
day  of  mortal  danger,  had  borne  back  from  them  the  waves 
! of  battle,  could  neither  be  degraded  by  simplicity,  nor  exalted 
I by  decoration.  By  its  rude  leathern  thong  it  seemed  to  be 
' fastened  to  their  tombs,  and  the  shield  of  the  mighty  was  not 
cast  away,  though  capable  of  defending  its  master  no  more. 

§ Lxxv.  It  was  otherwise  in  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  cen- 
turies. The  changed  system  of  warfare  was  rapidly  doing 
away  with  the  practical  service  of  the  shield ; and  the  chiefs 
who  directed  the  battle  from  a distance,  or  who  passed  the 
greater  part  of  their  lives  in  the  council-chamber,  soon  came 
to  regard  the  shield  as  nothing  more  than  a field  for  their 
armorial  bearings.  It  then  became  a principal  object  of  their 
Pride  of  State  to  increase  the  conspicuousness  of  these  marks 
of  family  distinction  by  surrounding  them  with  various  and 
fantastic  ornament,  generally  scroll  or  flower  work,  which  of 
: course  deprived  the  shield  of  all  appearance  of  being  intended 
for  a soldier's  use.  Thus  the  shield  of  the  FosV*ari  is  intro- 


83 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STxVTE, 


daced  iii  two  ways.  On  the  sarcophagus,  the  bearings  are 
three  times  repeated,  enclosed  in  circular  disks,  which  are 
sustained  each  by  a couple  of  naked  infantsv  Above  the 
canopy,  two  shields  of  the  usual  form  are  set  in  the  centre  of 
circles  filled  by  a radiating  ornament  of  shell  fiutings,  which 
give  them  the  effect  of  ventilators  ; and  their  circumference  is 
farther  adorned  by  gilt  rays,  undulating  to  represent  a glory. 

§ Lxxvi.  We  now  approach  that  period  of  the  early  Kenais- 
sance  which  was  noticed  in  the  preceding  chapter  as  being  at 
first  a very  visible  improvement  on  the  corrupted  Gothic.  The 
tombs  executed  during  the  period  of  the  Byzantine  Renais- 
sance exhibit,  in  the  first  jilace,  a consummate  skill  in  handling 
the  chisel,  science  of  drawing  and  anatomy,  high 

appreciation  of  good  classical  models,  and  a grace  of  composi- 
tion and  delicacy  of  ornament  derived,  I believe,  principally 
from  the  great  Florentine  sculptors.  But,  together  with  this 
science,  they  exhibit  also,  for  a short  time,  some  return  to  the 
early  religious  feeling,  forming  a school  of  sculpture  which 
corresponds  to  that  of  the  school  of  the  Bellini  in  painting ; 
and  the  only  wonder  is  that  there  should  not  have  been  more 
workmen  in  the  fifteenth  century  doing  in  marble  what  Peru- 
gino,  Francia,  and  Bellini  did  on  canvas.  There  are,  indeed, 
some  few,  as  I have  just  said,  in  whom  the  good  and  pure 
temper  shows  itself  : but  the  sculptor  was  necessarily  led 
sooner  than  the  painter  to  an  exclusive  study  of  classical 
models,  utterly  adverse  to  the  Christian  imagination  ; and  he 
was  also  deprived  of  the  great  purifying  and  sacred  element 
of  color,  besides  having  much  more  of  merely  mechanical  and 
thei'efore  degrading  labor  to  go  through  in  the  realization  of 
his  thought.  Hence  I do  not  know  any  example  in  sculpture 
at  this  period,  at  least  in  Venice,  which  has  not  conspicuous 
faults  (not  faults  of  imperfection,  as  in  early  sculpture,  but  of 
purpose  and  sentiment),  staining  such  beauties  as  it  may  pos- 
sess ; and  the  whole  school  soon  falls  away,  and  merges  into 
vain  pomp  and  meagre  metaphor. 

§ Lxxvii.  The  most  celebrated  monument  of  this  J)criod  is 
that  to  the  Doge  Andrea  Vendramin,  in  the  Church  of  St. 


II.  PlilDE  OF  STATE.  II.  ROMAis  REXAISSAKCE. 


89 


John  and  Paul,  sculj)tured  about  1480,  and  before  alluded  to 
in  the  first  chapter  of  the  first  volume.  It  has  attracted  public 
admiration,  partly  by  its  costliness,  partly  by  the  delicacy  and 
precision  of  its  chiselling;  being  otherwise  a very  base  and  un- 
worthy examj^le  of  the  school,  and  showing  neither  invention 
nor  feeling.  It  has  the  Virtues,  as  usual,  dressed  like  heathen 
goddesses,  and  totally  devoid  of  expression,  though  gracefu. 
and  well  studied  merely  as  female  figures.  The  rest  of  its 
sculpture  is  all  of  the  same  kind  ; perfect  in  workmanship, 
and  devoid  of  thought.  Its  dragons  are  covered  with  marvel- 
lous scales,  but  have  no  terror  nor  sting  in  them  ; its  birds  are 
perfect  in  plumage,  but  have  no  song  in  them ; its  children 
lovely  of  limb,  but  have  no  childishness  in  them. 

§ Lxxviii.  Of  far  other  workmanshij)  are  the  tombs  of 
Pietro  and  Giovanni  Mocenigo,  in  St.  John  and  Paul,  and  of 
Pietro  Bernardo  in  the  Frari;  in  all  which  the  details  are  as 
full  of  exrpiisite  fancy,  as  they  are  perfect  in  execution ; and 
in  the  two  former,  and  several  others  of  similar  feeling,  the 
old  religious  symbols  return  ; the  Madonna  is  again  seen 
enthroned  under  the  canopy,  and  the  sarcophagus  is  decorated 
with  legends  of  the  saints.  But  the  fatal  errors  of  sentiment 
are,  nevertheless,  always  traceable.  In  the  first  place,  the 
sculptor  is  always  seen  to  be  intent  upon  the  exhibition  of  his 
skill,  more  than  on  producing  any  effect  on  the  spectator’s 
mind  ; elaborate  backgrounds  of  landscape,  with  tricks  of  per- 
spective, imitations  of  trees,  clouds,  and  water,  and  various 
other  unnecessary  adjuncts,  merely  to  show  how  marble  could 
be  subdued ; together  with  useless  under-cutting,  and  over- 
finish in  subordinate  parts,  continually  exhibiting  the  same 
cold  vanity  and  unexcited  precision  of  mechanism.  In  the 
second  place,  the  figures  have  all  the  peculiar  tendency  to 
posture-making,  which,  exhibiting  itself  first  painfully  in  Peru- 
gino,  rapidly  destroyed  the  veracity  of  composition  in  all  art. 
By  posture-making  I mean,  in  general,  that  action  of  figures 
which  results  from  the  painter’s  considering,  in  the  first  place, 
not  how,  under  the  circumstances,  they  would  actually  have 
walked,  or  stood,  or  looked,  but  how  they  may  most  gracefully 


so 


THIKl)  PERIOD. 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


and  liarmoniousl}"  walk  or  stand.  In  the  hands  of  a great  man, 
posture,  like  everything  else,  becomes  noble,  even  when  over- 
studied, as  with  Michael  Angelo,  who  was,  perhaps,  more  than 
any  other,  the  cause  of  the  mischief  ; but,  with  inferior  men, 
this  habit  of  composing  attitudes  ends  necessarily  in  utter  lifeless- 
ness and  abortion.  Giotto  was,  perhaps,  of  all  painters,  the  most 
free  from  the  infection  of  the  poison,  always  conceiving  an  in- 
cident naturally,  and  drawing  it  unaffectedly  ; and  the  absence 
of  posture-making  in  the  w^orks  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites,  as  op' 
posed  to  the  Attitudinarianisni  of  the  modern  school,  has  been 
both  one  of  their  principal  virtues,  and  of  the  principal  causes 
of  outcry  against  them. 

§ Lxxix.  But  the  most  significant  change  in  the  treatment 
of  these  tombs,  with  respect  to  our  immediate  object,  is  in  the 
f(  nn  of  the  sarcophagus.  It  was  above  noted,  that,  exactly  in 
proportion  to  the  degree  of  the  pride  of  life  expressed  in  any 
monument,  would  be  also  the  fear  of  death ; and  therefore,  "as 
these  tombs  increase  in  splendor,  in  size,  and  beauty  of  ^vork- 
mansLip,  we  perceive  a gradual  desire  to  take  avjay  from  the 
dxi^jinite  character  of  the  sarcophagus.  In  the  earliest  times, 
as  we  have  seen,  it  was  a gloomy  mass  of  stone  ; gradually  it 
became  charged  with  religious  sculpture ; but  never  with  the 
slightest  desire  to  disguise  its  form,  until  towards  the  middle 
of  the  fifteenth  century.  It  then  becomes  enriched  with 
flower- work  and  hidden  l^y  the  Virtues  ; and,  finally,  losing  its 
four-square  form,  it  is  modelled  on  graceful  types  of  ancient 
vases,  made  as  little  like  a cofSn  as  possible,  and  refined  away 
in  various  elegancies,  till  it  becomes,  at  last,  a mere  pedestal 
or  stage  for  the  portrait  statue.  This  statue,  in  the  meantime, 
has  been  gradually  coming  back  to  life,  through  a curious 
series  of  transitions.  The  Vendramin  monument  is  one  of  the 
last  which  shows,  or  pretends  to  show,  the  recumbent  figure 
laid  in  death.  A few  years  later,  this  idea  became  disagree- 
able to  polite  minds ; and,  lo ! the  figures  wRich  before  had 
l)een  laid  at  rest  upon  the  tomb  pillow,  raised  themselves  on 
thei?'  elbows,  and  began  to  look  round  them.  The  soul  of  the 
sixteenth  century  dared  not  contemplate  its  body  in  death. 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE.  H*  RO^IAiST  REKAISSAKCE. 


91 


§ Lxxx.  The  reader  cannot  but  remember  many  instances 
of  this  form  of  monument,  England  being  peculiarly  rich  in 
examples  of  them ; althougli,  with  her,  tomb  sculpture,  after 
the  fourteenth  century,  is  altogether  imitative,  and  in  no  de- 
gree indicative  of  the  temper  of  the  people.  It  was  from  Italy 
that  the  authority  for  the  change  was  derived  ; and  in  Italy 
only,  therefore,  that  it  is  truly  correspondent  to  the  change  in 
the  national  mind.  There  are  many  monuments  in  Venice  of 
. this  semi-animate  type,  most  of  them  carefully  sculptured,  and 
some  very  admirable  as  portraits,  and  for  the  casting  of  the 
drapery,  especially  those  in  the  Church  of  San  Salvador  ; but 
I shall  only  direct  the  reader  to  one,  that  of  Jacopo  Pesaro, 
Bishop  of  Paphos,  in  the  Church  of  the  Frari ; notable  not 
only  as  a very  skilful  piece  of  sculpture,  but  for  the 
epitaph,  singularly  chaTacteristic  of  the  period,  and  confirma- 
tory of  all  that  I have  alleged  against  it : 

James  Pesaro,  Bishop  of  Paphos,  who  conquered  the  Turks  in  war, 
himself  in  peace,  transported  from  a noble  family  among  the  Venetians 
to  a nobler  among  the  angels,  laid  here,  expects  the  noblest  crown, 
which  the  just  Judge  shall  give  to  him  in  that  day.  He  lived  the  years 
of  Plato.  He  died  24th  March,  1547.^ 

The  mingled  classicism  and  carnal  pride  of  this  epitaph 
I surely  need  no  comment.  The  crown  is  expected  as  a right 
‘ from  the  justice  of  the  judge,  and  the  nobility  of  the  Venetian 
■ family  is  only  a little  lower  than  that  of  the  angels.  The 
I quaint  childishness  of  the  Vixit  aniios  Platonicos”  is  also 
f very  notable. 

§ Lxxxi.  The  statue,  however,  did  not  long  remain  in  this 
])artially  recumbent  attitude.  Even  the  expression  of  peace 
l)ecame  painful  to  the  frivolous  and  thoughtless  Italians,  and 
they  required  the  portraiture  to  be  rendered  in  a manner  that 
should  induce  no  memory  of  death.  The  statue  rose  up,  and 
presented  itself  in  front  of  the  tomb,  like  an  actor  upon  a stage, 

* “Jacobus  Pisaurius  Paphi  Episcopus  qui  Turcos  bello,  se  ipsum  pace 
vincebat,  ex  nobili  inter  Venetas,  ad  nobiliorem  inter  Angelos  familiam 
ft  delatus,  nobilissimam  in  ilia  die  Coronam  justo  Judice  reddente,  bic  sitiu 
I expectat  Vixit  annos  Platon icos.  Obijt  MDXLVII.  IX.  Kal.  Aprilis.’’ 


92 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


surrounded  now  not  merely,  or  not  at  all,  by  the  Virtues,  but  by 
allegorical  figures  of  Fame  and  Victory,  by  genii  and  muses, 
by  personifications  of  humbled  kingdoms  and  adoring  nations, 
and  by  every  circumstance  of  pomp,  and  symbol  of  adulation, 
that  flattery  could  suggest,  or  insolence  could  claim. 

§ Lxxxii.  As  of  the  intermediate  monumental  type,  so  also 
of  this,  the  last  and  most  gross,  there  are  unfortunately  many 
examples  in  our  own  country ; but  the  most  wonderful,  by 
far,  are  still  at  Venice.  I shall,  however,  particularize  only 
two ; the  first,  that  of  the  Doge  John  Pesaro,  in  the  Frari. 
It  is  to  be  observed  that  we  have  passed  over  a considerable 
interval  of  time  ; we  are  now  in  the  latter  half  of  the  seven- 
teenth century ; the  progress  of  corruption  has  in  the  mean- 
time been  incessant,  and  sculpture  has  here  lost  its  taste  and 
learning  as  well  as  its  feeling.  The  monument  is  a huge  accu- 
mulation of  theatrical  scenery  in  marble : four  colossal  negro 
caryatides,  grinning  and  horrible,  with  faces  of  black  marble 
and  white  eyes,  sustain  the  first  story  of  it ; above  this,  two 
monsters,  long-necked,  half  dog  and  half  dragon,  sustain  an 
ornamental  sarcoph^^gus,  on  the  top  of  which  the  full-length 
statue  of  the  Doge  in  robes  of  state  stands  forward  with  its 
arms  expanded,  like  an  actor  courting  applause,  under  a huge 
canopy  of  metal,  like  the  roof  of  a bed,  painted  crimson  and 
gold ; on  each  side  of  him  are  sitting  figures  of  genii,  and 
unintelligible  personifications  gesticulating  in  Roman  armor ; 
below,  between  the  negro  caryatides,  are  two  ghastly  figures 
in  bronze,  half  corpse,  half  skeleton,  carrying  tablets  on  which 
is  written  the  eulogium  : but  in  large  letters  graven  in  gold, 
the  following  words  are  the  first  and  last  that  strike  the  eye  ; 
the  first  two  phrases,  one  on  each  side,  on  tablets  in  the  lower 
story,  the  last  under  the  portrait  statue  above  : 

ViXIT  ANNOS  LXX.  Devixit  axxo  MDCLIX. 

Hic  REVIXIT  ANNO  MDCLXIX.” 

We  have  here,  at  last,  the  horrible  images  of  death  in  violent 
contrast  with  the  defiant  monument,  which . pretends  to  bring 


II.  riUDE  OF  STATE.  II.  KOJIAX  KEX.AISSAX.CE. 


93 


the  resuiTectioii  down  to  earth,  Hie  revdxit and  it  seems 
impossible  foi-  false  taste  and  base  feeling  to  sink  lower.  Yet 
even  this  monument  is  surpassed  by  one  in  St.  John  and  Paul. 

§ Lxxxiii.  But  before  we  pass  to  this,  the  last  with  which  I 
shall  burden  the  reader’s  attention/ let  us  for  a moment,  and 
that  we  may  feel  the  contrast  more  forcibly,  return  to  a torn!) 
of  the  early  times. 

In  a dark  niche  in  the  outer  wall  of  the  outer  corridor  of 
St.  Mark’s — not  even  in  the  church,  observe,  but  in  the 
atrium  or  porch  of  it,  and  on  the  north  side  of  the  church,— 7- 
is  a solid  sarcophagus  of  white  marble,  raised  only  about  two 
feet  from  the  ground  on  four  stunted  square  pillars.  Its  lid 
is  a mere  slab  of  stone ; on  its  ext]*emities  are  sculptured  two 
crosses  ; in  front  of  it  are  two  rows  of  rude  figures,  the  uppeu 
most  representing  Christ  with  the  Apostles : the  lower  row  is 
of  six  figures  only,  alternately  male  and  female,  holding  up 
their  hands  in  the  usual  attitude  of  benediction  ; the  sixth  is 
smaller  than  the  rest,  and  the  midmost  of  the  other  five  has  a 
glory  round  its  head.  I cannot  tell  the  meaning  of  these 
figures,  but  between  them  are  suspended  censers  attached  to 
crosses ; a most  beautiful  symbolic  expression  of  Chi-ist’s 
mediatorial  function.  The  whole  is  surrounded  by  a rude 
wreath  of  vine  leaves,  proceeding  out  of  the  foot  of  a cross. 

On  the  bar  of  marble  which  separates  the  two  rows  of 
figures  are  inscribed  these  words  : 

Here  lies  the  Lord  Marin  Morosini,  Duke.” 

It  is  the  tomb  of  the  Doge  Marino  Morosini,  who  reigned 
from  1249  to  1252. 

§ Lxxxn^  From  before  this  rude  and  solemn  sepulchre  let 
us  pass  to  the  southern  aisle  of  the  church  of  St.  John  and 
Paul;  and  there,  towering  from  the  pavement  to  the  vaulting 
of  the  church,  behold  a mass  of  marble,  sixty  or  seventy  feet 
in  height,  of  mingled  yellow  and  white,  the  yellow  carved  into 
the  form  of  an  enormous  curtain,  with  ropes,  fringes,  and 
tassels,  sustained  by  cherubs  ; in  front  of  which,  in  the  tiow 
usual  stage  attitudes,  advance  the  statues  of  the  Doge  Bertuc- 


94 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


II.  PRIDE  OF  STATE. 


cio  Valier,  his  son  the  Doge  Silvester  Falier,  and  his  son’s 
Avife,  Elizabeth.  The  statues  of  the  Doges^  though  mean  and 
Polonius-like,  are  partly  redeemed  by  the  Dueal  robes ; but 
that  of  the  Dogaressa  is  a consummation  of  grossness,  vanity, 
and  ugliness, — the  figure  of  a large  and  wrinkled  avoid  an,  with 
elaborate  curls  in  stiff  projection  round  her  face,  covered  from 
her  shoulders  to  her  feet  Avith  ruffs,  furs,  lace,  jewels,  and  em= 
broidery.  Beneath  and  around  are  scattered  Virtues,  Vic- 
tories, Fames,  genii, — the  entire  company  of  the  monumental 
stage  assembled,  as  before  a drop  scene, — executed  by  various 
sculptors,  and  deserving  attentive  study  as  exhibiting  every 
condition  of  false  taste  and  feeble  conception.  The  Victory  in 
the  centre  is  peculiarly  interesting  ; the  lion  by  which  she  is 
accompanied,  springing  on  a dragon,  has  been  intended  to 
look  terrible,  but  the  incapable  sculptor  could  not  conceive 
any  form  of  dreadfulness,  could  not  even  make  the  lion  look 
angry.  It  looks  only  lachrymose;  and  its  lifted  forepaAA^s, 
there  being  no  spring  nor  motion  in  its  body,  give  it  the 
appearance  of  a dog  l)egging.  The  inscriptions  under  the 
two  principal  statues  are  as  follows  : i 

"‘Bertucius  Yalier,  Duke, 

Great  in  wisdom  and  eloquence, 

Greater  in  his  Hellespontic  victory, 

Greatest  in  the  Prince  his  son.  * 

Died  in  the  year  1658.”  { 

i 

Elisabeth  Quirina, 

The  wife  of  Silvester,  j 

Distinguished  by  Koinan  virtue,  > 

By  Venetian  piety. 

And  by  the  Ducal  crown. 

Died  1708.” 

The  writers  of  this  age  Avere  generally  anxious  to  make  tlic 
Avorld  aware  that  they  understood  the  degrees  of  comparison, 
and  a large  number  of  epitaphs  are  principally  constructed  \ 
Avith  this  object  (compare,  in  the  Latin,  that  of  the  Bishop  of 
Paphos,  given  above)  : but  the  latter  of  these  epitaphs  is  also 
interesting  from  its  mention,  in  an  age  now  altogether  gi\^en  • 


HI.  PKIDE  OP  SYSTEM.  II.  ROMAK  REXAISSAi^CE. 


05 


up  to  the  pursuit  of  worldly  honor,  of  that  ^‘Venetian  piety” 
which  once  truly  distinguished  the  city  from  all  others  ; and 
of  which  some  form  and  shadow,  remaining  still,  served  to 
point  an  epitaph,  and  to  feed  more  cunningly  and  speciously 
the  pride  which  could  not  be  satiated  with  the  sumptuousness 
of  the  sepulchre. 

§ Lxxxv.  Thus  far,  then,  of  the  second  element  of  the  Ke- 
naissance  spirit,  the  Pride  of  State ; nor  need  we  go  farther  to 
learn  the  reason  of  the  fall  of  Venice.  She  was  already  likened 
in  her  thoughts,  and  was  therefore  to  be  likened  in  her  ruin, 
to  the  Virgin  of  Babylon.  The  Pride  of  State  and  the  Pride 
of  Knowledge  were  no  new  passions : the  sentence  against 
them  had  gone  forth  from  everlasting.  Thou  saidst,  I shall 
be  a lady  for  ever  ; so  that  thou  didst  not  lay  these  things  to 
thine  heart.  . . Thy  wisdom  and  thy  hnowledge^  it  hath 

perverted^  thee  ; and  thou  hast  said  in  thine  heart,  I am,  and 
none  else  beside  me.  Therefore  shall  evil  come  upon  thee 
. . . ; thy  merchants  from  thy  youth,  they  shall  wander 

every  one  to  his  quarter ; none  shall  save  thee.” 

§ Lxxxvi.  III.  Pride  of  System.  I might  have  illustrated 
these  evil  principles  from  a thousand  other  sources,  but  I have 
not  time  to  pursue  the  subject  farther,  and  must  pass  to  the 
third  element  above  named,  the  Pride  of  System.  It  need 
not  detain  us  so  long  as  either  of  the  others,  for  it  is  at  once 
more  palpable  and  less  dangerous.  The  manner  in  which  the 
pride  of  the  fifteenth  century  corrupted  the  sources  of  know- 
ledge, and  diminished  the  majesty,  while  it  multiplied  the  trap- 
pings, of  state,  is  in  general  little  observed  ; but  the  reader  is 
probably  already  well  and  sufficiently  aware  of  the  curious 
tendency  to  formulization  and  system  which,  under  the  name 
of  philosophy,  encumbered  the  minds  of  the  Renaissance 
schoolmen.  As  it  was  above  stated,  grammar  became  the 
first  of  sciences ; and  whatever  subject  had  to  be  treated,  the 
first  aim  of  the  philosopher  was  to  subject  its  principles  to  a 
code  of  laws,  in  the  observation  of  which  the  merit  of  the 


* Isaiah  xlvii.  7,  10,  11,  15. 


96 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


ITI.  PRIDE  OF  SYSTEM. 


speaker,  thinker,  or  worker,  in  oi-  on  that  subject,  was  there- 
after to  consist ; so  that  the  whole  mind  of  the  world  was 
occupied  by  the  exclusive  study  of  Restraints.  The  sound  of 
the  forging  of  fetters  was  heard  from  sea  to  sea.  The  doctors 
of  all  the  arts  and  sciences  set  themselves  daily  to  the  inven- 
tion of  new  varieties  of  cages  and  manacles  ; they  themselves 
wore,  instead  of  gowns,  a chain  mail,  whose  purjiose  was  not 
so  much  to  avert  the  weapon  of  the  adversary  as  to  restrain 
the  motions  of  the  wearer ; and  all  the  acts,  thoughts,  and 
workings  of  mankind, — poetry,  painting,  architecture,  and 
philosophy, — were  reduced  by  them  merely  to  so  many  different 
forms  of  fetter-dance. 

§ Lxxxvii.  Now,  I am  very  sure  that  no  reader  who  has 
given  any  attention  to  the  former  portions  of  this  work,  or  the 
tendency  of  what  else  I have  written,  more  especially  the  last 
chapter  of  the  Seven  Lamps,’’  will  suppose  me  to  underrate 
the  importance,  or  dispute  the  authority,  of  law.  It  has  been 
necessary  for  me  to  allege  these  again  and  again,  nor  can  they 
ever  be  too  often  or  too  energetically  alleged,  against  the  vast 
masses  of  men  who  now  disturb  or  retard  the  advance  of  civili- 
zation ; heady  and  high-minded,  despisers  of  discipline,  and  re- 
fusers of  correction.  But  law,  so  far  as  it  can  be  reduced  to 
form  and  system,  and  is  not  written  upon  the  heart, — as  it  is, 
in  a Divine  loyalty,  upon  the  hearts  of  the  great  hierarchies 
who  serve  and  wait  about  the  throne  of  the  Eternal  Lawgiver, 
— this  lower  and  formally  expressible  law  has,  I say,  two  ob- 
jects. It  is  either  for  the  definition  and  restraint  of  sin,  or 
the  guidance  of  simplicity  ; it  either  explains,  forbids,  and 
punishes  wickedness,  or  it  guides  the  movements  and  actions 
both  of  lifeless  things  and  of  the  more  simple  and  untaught 
among  responsible  agents.  And  so  long,  therefore,  as  sin  and 
foolishness  are  in  the  world,  so  long  it  will  be  necessary  for 
men  to  submit  themselves  painfully  to  this  lower  law,  in  pro- 
portion to  their  need  of  being  corrected,  and  to  the  degree  of 
childishness  or  simplicity  by  which  they  approach  more  nearly 
to  the  condition  of  the  unthinking  and  inanimate  things  which 
ai'e  governed  by  law  altogether ; yet  yielding,  in  the  manner 


97 


j.  III.  PRIDE  OF  SYSTEM.  IT.  ROMAK  REKAISSANCE. 

\ 

^ of  their  submission  to  it,  a singular  lesson  to  the  pride  of  man, 

\ — being  obedient  more  perfectly  in  proportion  to  their  great- 

ness.*  But,  so  far  as  men  become  good  and  wise,  and  rise 
above  the  state  of  children,  so  far  they  become  emancipated 
from  this  written  law,  and  invested  with  the  perfect  freedom 
which  consists  in  the  fulness  and  joyfulness  of  compliance 
with  a higher  and  unwritten  law  ; a law  so  universal,  so  subtle, 
so  glorious,  that  nothing  but  the  heart  can  keep  it. 

§ LxxxviTi.  Now  pride  opposes  itself  to  the  observance  of 
this  Divine  law  in  two  opposite  ways  : either  by  brute  resist- 
ance, which  is  the  way  of  the  rabble  and  its  leaders,  denying 
or  defying  law  altogether ; or  by  formal  compliance,  which  is 
tlie  way  of  the  Pharisee,  exalting  himself  while  he  pretends  to 
obedience,  and  making  void  the  infinite  and  spiritual  com- 
1 mandment  by  the  finite  and  lettered  commandment.  And  it 
is  easy  to  know  which  law  we  are  obeying : foi*  any  law  which 
we  magnify  and  keep  through  pride,  is  always  the  law  of  the 
letter ; but  that  which  we  love  and  keep  through  humility,  is 
the  law  of  the  Spirit : And  the  letter  killeth,  but  the  Spirit 
giveth  life. 

§ Lxxxix.  In  the  appliance  of  this  universal  principle  to 
Avhat  we  have  at  present  in  hand,  it  is  to  be  noted,  that  all 
written  or  writable  law  respecting  the  arts  is  for  the  childish 
and  ignorant : that  in  the  beginning  of  teaching,  it  is  possible 
to  say  that  this  or  that  must  or  must  not  be  done  ; and  laws  of 
^ color  and  shade  may  be  taught,  as  laws  of  harmony  are  to  the 
young  scholar  in  music.  But  the  moment  a man  begins  to  be 
anything  deserving  the  name  of  an  artist,  all  this  teachable  law 
has  become  a matter  of  course  with  him ; and  if,  thenceforth, 
he  boast  himself  anywise  in  the  law,  or  pretend  that  he  lives 
and  wmrks  by  it,  it  is  a sure  sign  that  he  is  merely  titliing 
cummin,  and  that  there  is  no  true  arc  nor  religion  in  him.  For 
i the  true  artist  has  that  inspiration  in  him  wliich  is  above  all 
; law,  or  rather,  which  is  continually  working  out  such  raagnifi- 
i cent  and  perfect  obedience  to  supreme  law,  as  can  in  no  wise 


Compare  “ Seven  Lamps,”  chap.  vii.  § 3. 


98 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


III.  PRIDE  OE  SYSTEM. 


be  rendered  by  line  and  rule.  There  are  more  laws  perceived 
and  fulfilled  in  the  single  stroke  of  a great  workman,  than 
could  be  written  in  a volume.  His  science  is  inexpressibly 
subtle,  directly  taught  him  by  his  Maker,  not  in  any  wise  com- 
municable or  imitable.’^  Neither  can  any  written  or  definitely 
observable  laws  enable  us  to  do  any  great  thing.  It  is  possible, 
by  measuring  and  administering  quantities  of  color,  to  paint  a 
room  wall  so  that  it  shall  not  hurt  the  eye ; but  there  are  no  laws 
by  observing  which  we  can  become  Titians.  It  is  possible  so  to 
measure  and  administer  syllables,  as  to  construct  harmonious 
verse ; but  there  are  no  laws  by  which  we  can  write  Iliads. 
Out  of  the  poem  or  the  picture,  once  produced,  men  may  elicit 
laws  by  the  volume,  and  study  them  with  advantage,  to  the 
better  understanding  of  the  existing  poem  or  picture ; but  no 
more  write  or  paint  another,  than  by  discovering  laws  of  vege- 
tation they  can  make  a tree  to  grow.  And  therefore,  where- 
soever we  find  the  system  and  formality  of  rules  much  dwelt 
upon,  and  spoken  of  as  anything  else  than  a help  for  children, 
there  we  may  be  sure  that  noble  art  is  not  even  understood,  far 
less  reached.  And  thus  it  was  with  all  the  common  and  public 
mind  in  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries.  The  greater 
men,  indeed,  broke  through  the  thorn  hedges ; and,  though 
much  time  was  lost  by  the  learned  among  them  in  writing 
Latin  verses  and  anagrams,  and  arranging  the  framework  of 
quaint  sonnets  and  dexterous  syllogisms,  still  they  tore  their 
way  through  the  sapless  thicket  by  force  of  intellect  or  of 
piety ; for  it  was  not  possible  that,  either  in  literature  or  in 
painting,  rules  could  be  received  by  any  strong  mind,  so  as 
materially  to  interfere  with  its  originality  : and  the  crabbed 
discipline  and  exact  scholarship  became  an  advantage  to  the 
men  who  could  pass  through  and  despise  them ; so  that  in 
spite  of  the  rules  of  the  di-ama  we  had  Shakspeare,  and  in  spite 
of  the  rules  of  art  we  had  Tintoret, — both  of  them,  to  this  day, 
doing  perpetual  violence  to  the  vulgar  scholarship  and  dim- 
eyed proprieties  of  the  multitude. 

§ xc.  But  in  architecture  it  w^as  not  so  ; for  that  was  the 


^ Sec  ^\e  farther  remarks  on  Inspiration,  in  the  fourth  chapter. 


riL  I'iumi  OF  sYstE^t.  ti.  rexaissakoe.  9t) 

art  of  the  multitude,  and  was  affected  by  all  their  errors  ; and 
the  great  men  who  entered  its  held,  like  Michael  Angelo,  found 
expression  for  all  the  best  part  of  their  minds  in  sculpture,  and 
made  the  architecture  merely  its  shell.  So  the  simpletons  and 
sophists  had  their  way  with  it : and  the  reader  can  have  no 
conception  of  the  inanities  and  puerilities  of  the  writers,  who, 
with  the  help  of  Vitruvius,  re-established  its  five  orders,'’ 
determined  the  propoi’tions  of  each,  and  gave  the  various  re- 
cipes for  sublimity  and  beauty,  which  have  been  thenceforward 
followed  to  this  day,  but  which  may,  I believe,  in  this  age  of 
perfect  machinery,  be  followed  out  still  farther.  If,  indeed, 
there  are  only  five  perfect  forms  of  columns  and  architraves, 
and  there  be  a fixed  proportion  to  each,  it  is  certainly  possible, 
with  a little  ingenuity,  so  to  regulate  a stonecutting  machine, 
as  that  it  shall  furnish  pillars  and  friezes  to  the  size  ordered, 
of  any  of  the  five  orders,  on  the  most  perfect  Greek  models, 
in  any  quantity  ; an  epitome,  also,  of  Vitruvius,  may  be  made 
so  simple,  as  to  enable  any  bricklayer  to  set  them  up  at  their 
proper  distances,  and  we  may  dispense  with  our  architects 
altogether. 

§ xcT.  But  if  this  be  not  so,  and  there  be  any  truth  in  the 
faint  persuasion  which  still  lurks  in  men’s  minds  that  architec- 
ture is  an  art,  and  that  it  requires  some  gleam  of  intellect  to 
practise  it,  then  let  the  whole  system  of  the  orders  and  their 
proportions  be  cast  out  and  trampled  down  as  the  most  vain, 
barbarous,  and  paltry  deception  that  was  ever  stamped  on 
human  prejudice ; and  let  us  understand  this  plain  truth,  com- 
mon to  all  work  of  man,  that,  if  it  be  good  work,  it  is  not  a 
copy,  nor  anything  done  by  rule,  but  a freshly  and  divinely 
imagined  thing.  Five  orders  ! There  is  not  a side  chapel  in 
any  Gothic  cathedral  but  it  has  fifty  orders,  the  worst  of  them 
better  than  the  best  of  the  Greek  ones,  and  all  new ; and  a 
single  inventive  human  soul  could  create  a thousand  orders  in 
an  hour.*  And  this  would  have  been  discovered  even  in  the 

* That  is  to  say,  orders  separated  by  such  distinctions  as  tlie  old  Greek 
ones  : considered  with  reference  to  the  bearing  power  of  the  capital,  all 
orders  may  be  referred  to  two,  as  long  ago  stated  ; just  as  trees  may  be  re- 
ferred to  the  two  great  classes,  monocotyledonous  and  dicotyledonous. 


100 


THIliD  PERIOD. 


lY.  IKFtDELITY 


worst  times,  but  that,  as  I said,  the  greatest  men  of  the  age 
found  expression  for  their  invention  in  the  other  arts,  and  the 
besh  of  those  who  devoted  themselves  to  architecture  were  in 
great  part  occupied  in  adapting  the  construction  of  buildings 
to  new  necessities,  such  as  those  developed  by  the  invention 
of  gunpowder  (introducing  a totally  new  and  most  interesting 
science  of  fortification,  which  directed  the  ingenuity  of  San- 
micheli  and  many  others  from  its  proper  channel),  and  found 
interest  of  a meaner  kind  in  the  difficulties  of  reconciling  the 
obsolete  architectural  laws  they  had  consented  to  revive,  and 
the  forms  of  Roman  architecture  which  they  agreed  to  copy, 
with  the  requirements  of  the  daily  life  of  the  sixteenth 
century. 

§ xcii.  These,  then,  were  the  three  principal  directions  in 
which  the  Renaissance  pride  manifested  itself,  and  its  impulses 
were  rendered  still  more  fatal  by  the  entrance  of  another  ele- 
ment, inevitably  associated  with  pride.  For,  as  it  is  written. 
He  that  trusteth  in  his  own  heart  is  a fool,’’  so  also  it  is 
written,  The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart.  There  is  no  God 
and  the  self-adulation  which  infiuenced  not  less  the  learning  of 
the  age  than  its  luxury,  led  gradually  to  the  forgetfulness  of  all 
tilings  but  self,  and  to  an  infidelity  only  the  more  fatal  because 
it  still  retained  the  form  and  language  of  faith. 

§ xciii.  ly . INFIDELITY.  In  noticing  the  more  prominent 
forms  in  which  this  faithlessness  manifested  itself,  it  is  necessary 
to  distinguish  justly  between  that  which  was  the  consequence 
of  respect  for  Paganism,  and  that  which  followed  from  the 
corruption  of  Catholicism.  For  as  the  Roman  architecture  is 
not  to  be  made  answerable  for  the  primal  corruption  of  the 
Gothic,  so  neither  is  the  Roman  philosophy  to  be  made 
answerable  for  the  primal  corruption  of  Christianity.  Year 
after  year,  as  the  history  of  the  life  of  Christ  sank  back  into 
the  depths  of  time,  and  became  obscured  by  the  misty  atmos- 
phere of  the  history  of  the  world, — as  intermediate  actions 
and  incidents  multiplied  in  number,  and  countless  changes  in 
men’s  modes  of  life,  and  tones  of  throught,  rendered  it  more 
difficult  for  them  to  imagine  the  facts  of  distant  time,— it  be^ 


XX.  INFIDELITY. 


II.  ROMAK  REKAISSAKCE. 


101 


came  daily^  almost  hourly,  a greater  effort  for  the  faithful 
heart  to  apprehend  the  entire  veracity  and  vitality  of  the  story 
of  its  Eedeemer;  and  more  easy  for  the  thoughtless  and 
remiss  to  deceive  themselves  as  to  the  true  cliaracter  of  the 
belief  they  had  been  taught  to  profess.  And  this  must  have 
been  the  case,  had  the  pastors  of  the  Church  never  failed  in 
their  watchfulness,  and  the  Church  itself  never  erred  in  its 
practice  or  doctrine.  But  when  every  year  that  removed  the 
truths  of  the  Gospel  into  deeper  distance,  added  to  them  also 
some  false  or  foolish  tradition ; when  wilful  distortion  was 
added  to  natural  obscurity,  and  the  dimness  of  memory  was 
disguised  by  the  fruitfulness  of  fiction ; when,  moreover,  the 
enormous  temporal  jDower  granted  to  the  clergy  attracted  into 
their  ranks  multitudes  of  men  who,  but  for  such  temptation, 
would  not  have  pretended  to  the  Christian  name,  so  that 
grievous  wolves  entered  in  among  them,  not  sparing  the  flock  ; 
and  when,  by  the  machinations  of  such  men,  and  the  remiss- 
ness of  others,  the  form  and  administrations  of  Church  doctrine 
and  discipline  had  become  little  more  than  a means  of  aggran- 
dizing the  jiower  of  the  priesthood,  it  was  impossible  any 
longer  for  men  of  thoughtfulness  or  piety  to  remain  in  an 
unquestioning  serenity  of  faith.  The  Church  had  become  so 
mingled  with  the  world  that  its  witness  could  no  longer  be  re- 
ceived ; and  the  professing  members  of  it,  who  were  placed  in 
circumstances  such  as  to  enable  them  to  become  aware  of  its 
corruptions,  and  whom  their  interest  or  their  simplicity  did  not 
bribe  or  beguile  into  silence,  gradually  separated  themselves 
into  two  vast  multitudes  of  adverse  energy,  one  tending  to 
Eeformation,  and  the  other  to  Infidelity. 

§ xciv.  Of  these,  the  last  stood,  as  it  were,  apart,  to  watch 
the  course  of  the  struggle  between  Romanism  and  Protestant- 
ism ; a struggle  which,  however  necessary,  was  attended  with 
infinite  calamity  to  the  Church.  For,  in  the  first  place,  the 
Protestant  movement  was,  in  reality,  not  Y^formation  but  re- 
animation.  It  poured  new  life  into  the  Church,  but  it  did  not 
form  or  define  her  anew.  In  some  soii:  it  rather  broke  down 
her  hedges,  so  that  all  they  who  passed  by  might  pluck  off  her 


102 


TmHi)  MRtOD. 


IV.  INFIDELITY. 


grapes.  The  reformers  speedily  found  that  the  enemy  was 
never  far  behind  the  sower  of  good  seed  ; that  an  evil  spirit 
might  enter  the  ranks  of  reformation  as  well  as  those  of  resist- 
ance ; and  that  though  the  deadly  blight  might  be  checked 
amidst  the  wheat,  there  was  no  hope  of  ever  ridding  the  wheat 
itself  from  the  tares.  New  temptations  were  invented  by 
Satan  wherewith  to  oppose  the  revived  strength  of  Christi- 
anity : as  the  Romanist,  confiding  in  his  human  teachers,  had 
ceased  to  try  whether  they  were  teachers  sent  from  God,  so  the 
Protestant,  confiding  in  the  teaching  of  the  Spirit,  believed 
every  spirit,  and  did  not  try  the  spirits  whether  they  were  of 
God.  And  a thousand  enthusiasms  and  heresies  speedily 
obscured  the  faith  and  divided  the  force  of  the  Reformation. 

§ xcv.  But  the  main  evils  rose  out  of  the  antagonism  of  the 
two  great  parties ; primarily,  in  the  mere  fact  of  the  existence 
of  an  antagonism.  To  the  eyes  of  the  unbeliever  the  Church 
of  Christ,  for  the  first  time  since  its  foundation,  bore  the  as- 
pect of  a house  divided  against  itself.  Not  that  many  forms 
of  schism  had  not  before  arisen  in  it ; but  either  they  had  been 
obscure  and  silent,  hidden  among  the  shadows  of  the  Alps 
and  the  marshes  of  the  Rhine  ; or  they  had  been  outbreaks  of 
visible  and  unmistakable  error,  cast  off  by  the  Church,  root- 
less, and  speedily  withering  away,  while,  with  much  that  was 
erring  and  criminal,  she  still  retained  within  her  the  pillar  and 
ground  of  the  truth.  But  here  was  at  last  a schism  in  which 
truth  and  authority  were  at  issue.  The  body  that  w^as  cast  off 
withered  away  no  longer.  It  stretched  out  its  boughs  to  the 
sea  and  its  branches  to  the  river,  and  it  was  the  ancient  trunk 
that  gave  signs  of  decrepitude.  On  one  side  stood  the 
reanimated  faith,  in  its  right  hand  the  book  open,  and  its  left 
hand  lifted  up  to  heaven,  aj)pealing  for  its  proof  to  the  Word 
of  the  Testimony  and  the  power  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  On  the 
other  stood,  or  seemed  to  stand,  all  beloved  custom  and  be- 
lieved tradition;  all  that  for  fifteen  hundred  years  had  been 
closest  to  the  hearts  of  men,  or  most  precious  for  their  help. 
Long-trusted  legend ; long-reverenced  power ; long-practised 
discipline  ; faiths  that  had  ruled  the  destiny,  and  sealed  the 


IV.  INFIDELITY. 


II.  ROMAIS"  RENAISSAilCE. 


1 


departure,  of  souls  that  could  not  be  told  or  numbered  for 
multitude ; prayers,  that  from  the  lips  of  the  fathers  to  those 
of  the  children  had  distilled  like  sweet  waterfalls,  sounding 
through  the  silence  of  ages,  breaking  themselves  into  heavenly 
dew  to  return  upon  the  pastures  of  the  wildei-ness  ; hopes,  that 
had  set  the  face  as  a flint  in  the  torture,  and  the  sword  as  a 
flame  in  the  battle,  that  had  pointed  the  purposes  and  minis- 
tered the  strength  of  life,  brightened  the  last  glances  and 
shaped  the  last  syllables  of  death  ; charities,  that  had  bound 
together  the  brotherhoods  of  the  mountain  and  the  desert,  and 
had  woven  chains  of  pitying  or  aspiring  communion  between 
this  world  and  the  unfathomable  beneath  and  above ; and, 
more  than  these,  the  spirits  of  all  the  innumerable,  undoubting, 
dead,  beckoning  to  the  one  way  . by  which  they  had  been  con- 
tent to  follow  the  things  that  belonged  unto  their  peace ; — 
these  all  stood  on  the  other  side : and  the  choice  must  have 
been  a bitter  one,  even  at  the  best ; but  it  was  rendered  ten- 
fold more  bitter  by  the  natural,  but  most  sinful  animosity  of 
the  two  divisions  of  the  Church  against  each  other. 

§ xcvi.  On  one  side  this  animosity  was,  of  course,  inevita- 
ble. The  Romanist  party,  though  still  including  many  Chris- 
tian men,  necessarily  included,  also,  all  the  worst  of  those  who 
called  themselves  Christians.  In  the  fact  of  its  refusing  cor- 
rection, it  stood  confessed  as  the  Church  of  the  unholy ; and, 
while  it  still  counted  among  its  adherents  many  of  the  simple 
and  believing, — men  unacquainted  with  the  corruption  of  the 
body  to  which  they  belonged,  or  incapable  of  accepting  any 
form  of  doctrine  but  that  which  they  had  been  taught  from 
their  youth, — it  gathered  together  with  them  whatever  was 
carnal  and  sensual  in  priesthood  or  in  people,  all  the  lovers  of 
power  in  the  one,  and  of  ease  in  the  other.  And  the  rage  of 
these  men  was,  of  course,  unlimited  against  those  who  either 
disputed  their  authority,  reprehended  their  manner  of  life,  or 
cast  suspicion  upon  the  popular  methods  of  lulling  the  con- 
science in  the  lifetime,  or  purchasing  salvation  on  the  death- 
bed. 

§ xcvii.  Besides  this,  the  reassertion  and  defence  of  various 


104 


THIKD  PERIOD. 


IV.  INFIDELITY. 


tenets  which  before  had  been  little  more  than  floating  errors 
in  the  popular  mind,  but  which,  definitely  attacked  by  Prot- 
estantism, it  became  necessary  to  fasten  down  with  a band 
of  iron  and  brass,  gave  a form  at  once  more  rigid,  and  less 
rational,  to  the  whole  body  of  Romanist  Divinity.  Multitudes 
of  minds  which  in  other  ages  might  have  brought  honor  and 
strength  to  the  Church,  preaching  the  more  vital  truths  which 
it  still  retained,  were  now  occupied  in  pleading  for  arraigned 
falsehoods,  or  magnifying  disused  frivolities ; and  it  can  hardly 
be  doubted  by  any  candid  observer,  that  the  nascent  or  latent 
errors  which  God  pardoned  in  times  of  ignorance,  became  un- 
pardonable when  they  were  formally  defined  and  defended; 
that  fallacies  which  were  forgiven  to  the  enthusiasm  of  a mul- 
titude, were  avenged  upon  the  stubbornness  of  a Council ; that, 
above  all,  the  great  invention  of  the  age,  which  rendered  God’s 
word  accessible  to  every  man,  left  all  sins  against  its  light  in- 
capable of  excuse  or  expiation;  and  that  from  the  moment 
when  Rome  set  herself  in  direct  opposition  to  the  Bible,  the 
judgment  was  pronounced  upon  her,  which  made  her  the  scorn 
and  the  prey  of  her  own  children,  and  cast  her  down  from  the 
throne  where  she  had  magnified  herself  against  heaven,  so  low, 
that  at  last  the  unimaginable  scene  of  the  Bethlehem  humilia- 
tion was  mocked  in  the  temples  of  Christianity.  Judea  had 
seen  her  God  laid  in  the  manger  of  the  beasts  of  burden ; it 
was  for  Christendom  to  stable  the  beasts  of  burden  by  the  altar 
of  her  God. 

§ xcviii.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  was  the  opposition  of 
Protestantism  to  the  Papacy  less  injurious  to  itself.  That  op- 
position was,  for  the  most  part,  intemperate,  undistinguishing, 
and  incautious.  It  could  indeed  hardly  be  otherwise.  Fresh 
Weeding  from  the  sword  of  Rome,  and  still  trembling  at  her 
anathema,  the  reformed  churches  were  little  likely  to  remember 
any  of  her  benefits,  or  to  regard  any  of  her  teaching.  Forced 
by  the  Romanist  contumely  into  habits  of  irreverence,  by  the 
Romanist  fallacies  into  habits  of  disbelief,  the  self -trusting, 
rashly-reasoning  spirit  gained  ground  among  them  daily.  Sect 
branched  out  of  sect,  ]_)resumption  rose  over  presumption ; the 


IV.  INFIDELITY. 


II.  ROMAJ^  REXAISSAKCE. 


105 


miracles  of  the  early  Oliiirch  were  denied  and  its  martyrs  for- 
gotten, tlioiigli  their  power  and  palm  were  claimed  by  the 
members  of  every  persecuted  sect ; pride,  malice,  wrath,  love 
of  change,  masked  themselves  under  the  thirst  for  truth,  and 
mingled  with  the  just  resentment  of  deception,  so  that  it  be- 
came impossible  even  for  the  best  and  truest  men  to  know  the 
plague  of  their  own  hearts ; while  avarice  and  impiety  openly 
transformed  reformation  into  robbery,  and  reproof  into  sacrilege. 
Ignorance  could  as  easily  lead  the  foes  of  the  Church,  as  lull 
her  slumber ; men  who  would  once  have  been  the  unquestion- 
ing 7'ecipients,  were  now  the  shameless  inventors  of  absurd  or 
perilous  superstitions  ; they  who  were  of  the  temper  that 
walketh  in  darkness,  gained  little  by  having  discovered  their 
guides  to  be  blind ; and  the  simplicity  of  the  faith,  ill  under- 
stood and  contumaciously  alleged,  became  an  excuse  for  the 
rejection  of  the  highest  arts  and  most  tried  wisdom  of  man- 
kind : while  the  learned  infidel,  standing  aloof,  drew  his  own 
conclusions,  both  from  the  rancor  of  the  antagonists,  and  from 
^their  errors ; believed  each  in  all  that  he  alleged  against  the 
other ; and  smiled  with  superior  humanity,  as  he  watched  the 
winds  of  the  Alps  drift  the  ashes  of  Jerome,  and  the  dust  of 
England  drink  the  blood  of  King  Charles. 

§ xcix.  Now  all  this  evil  was,  of  course,  entirely  indepen- 
dent of  the  renewal  of  the  study  of  Pagan  writers.  But  that 
renewal  found  the  faith  of  Christendom  already  w^eakened  and 
divided ; and  therefore  it  was  itself  productive  of  an  effect 
tenfold  greater  than  could  have  been  apprehended  from  it  at 
another  time.  It  acted  first,  as  before  noticed,  in  leading  the 
attention  of  all  men  to  words  instead  of  things ; for  it  was  dis- 
covered that  the  language  of  the  middle  ages  had  been  corrupt, 
and  the  primal  object  of  every  scholar  became  now  to  purify 
his  style.  To  this  study  of  words,  that  of  forms  being  added, 
both  as  of  matters  of  the  first  importance,  half  the  intellect  of 
the  age  was  at  once  absorbed  in  the  base  sciences  of  grammai*, 
logic,  and  rhetoric  ; studies  utterly  unworthy  of  the  serious 
labor  of  men,  and  necessarily  rendering  those  employed  upon 
them  incapable  of  liigli  thoughts  or  noble  emotion.  Of  the 


106 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


IV.  INFIDELITY. 


debasing  tendency  of  philology,  no  proof  is  needed  beyond  once 
reading  a grammarian’s  notes  on  a great  poet : logic  is  nmieces* 
sary  for  men  who  can  reason  ; and  about  as  useful  to  those  who 
cannot,  as  a machine  for  forcing  one  foot  in  due  succession  be- 
fore the  other  would  be  to  a man  who  could  not  walk : while 
the  study  of  rhetoric  is  exclusively  one  for  men  who  desire  to 
deceive  or  be  deceived ; he  who  has  the  truth  at  his  heart  need 
never  fear  the  want  of  persuasion  on  his  tongue,  or,  if  he  fear 
it,  it  is  because  the  base  rhetoric  of  dishonesty  keeps  the  truth 
from  being  heard. 

§ c.  The  study  of  these  sciences,  therefore,  naturally  made 
men  shallow  and  dishonest  in  general ; but  it  had  a peculiarly 
fatal  effect  with  respect  to  religion,  in  the  view  which  men 
took  of  the  Bible.  Christ’s  teaching  was  discovered  not  to  be 
rhetorical,  St.  Paul’s  preaching  not  to  be  logical,  and  the  Greek 
of  tire  New  Testament  not  to  be  grammatical.  The  stern 
truth,  the  profound  pathos,  the  impatient  period,  leaping  from 
point  to  point  and  leaving  the  intervals  for  the  hearer  to  fill, 
the  comparatively  Hebraized  and  unelaborate  idiom,  had  little 
in  them  of  attraction  for  the  students  of  phrase  and  syllogism; 
and  the  cliief  knowledge  of  the  age  became  one  of  the  chief 
stumbling-blocks  to  its  religion. 

§ ci.  But  it  was  not  the  grammarian  and  logician  alone 
who  was  thus  retarded  or  perverted  ; in  them  there  had  been 
small  loss.  The  men  who  could  truly  appreciate  the  higher 
excellences  of  the  classics  were  carried  away  by  a current  of 
(enthusiasm  which  withdrew  them  from  every  other  study. 
Christianity  was  still  professed  as  a matter  of  form,  but  neither 
the  Bible  nor  the  writings  of  the  Fathers  had  time  left  for  their 
perusal,  still  less  heart  left  for  their  acceptance.  The  human 
mind  is  not  capable  of  more  than  a certain  amount  of  admira- 
tion or  reverence,  and  that  which  was  given  to  Horace  was 
withdrawn  from  David.  Religion  is,  of  all  subjects,  that 
which  will  least  endure  a second  place  in  the  heart  or  thoughts, 
and  a languid  and  occasional  study  of  it  was  sure  to  lead  to 
error  or  infidelity.  On  the  other  hand,  what  was  heartily  ad- 
mired and  unceasingly  contemplated  was  soon  brought  nigh  to 


IV.  INFIDELITY. 


II.  KOMAK  REHAISSAUCE. 


107 


being  believed ; and  the  systems  of  Pagan  mythology  began 
gradually  to  assume  the  places  in  the  human  mind  from  which 
the  unwatched  Christianity  was  wasting.  Men  did  not  indeed 
openly  sacrifice  to  Jupiter,  or  build  silver  shrines  for  Diana, 
but  the  ideas  of  Paganism  nevertheless  became  thoroughly 
vital  and  present  with  them  at  all  times ; and  it  did  not  matter 
in  the  least,  as  far  as  respected  the  power  of  true  religion, 
whether  the  Pagan  image  was  believed  in  or  not,  so  long  as  it 
entirely  occupied  the  thoughts.  The  scholar  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  if  he  saw  the  lightning  shining  from  the  east  unto 
the  west,  thought  forthwith  of  Jupiter,  not  of  the  coming  of 
the  Son  of  Man  ; if  lie  saw  the  moon  walking  in . briglitness, 
he  thought  of  Diana,  not  of  the  throne  which  was  to  be  estab- 
lished for  ever  as  a faithful  witness  in  heaven ; and  though  his 
heart  was  but  secretly  enticed,  yet  thus  he  denied  the  God  that 
is  above.'^* 

And,  indeed,  this  double  creed,  of  Christianity  confessed 
and  Paganism  beloved,  was  worse  than  Paganism  itself,  inas- 
much as  it  refused  effective  and  practical  belief  altogether.  It 
would  have  been  better  to  have  worshipped  Diana  and  Jupiter 
at  once,  than  to  have  gone  on  through  the  whole  of  life  naming 
one  God,  imagining  another,  and  dreading  none.  Better,  a 
thousandfold,  to  have  been  a Pagan  suckled  in  some  creed 
outworn,’’  than  to  have  stood  by  the  great  sea  of  Eternity  and 
seen  no  God  wMking  on  its  waves,  no  heavenly  world  on  its 
horizon. 

§ cii.  This  fatal  result  of  an  enthusiasm  for  classical  litera- 
ture was  hastened  and  heightened  by  the  misdirection  of  the 
powers  of  art.  The  imagination  of  the  age  was  actively  set  to 
realize  these  objects  of  Pagan  belief ; and  all  the  most  exalted 
faculties  of  man,  which,  up  to  that  period,  had  been  employed 
in  the  service  of  Faith,  were  now  transferred  to  the  service  of 
Fiction.  The  invention  which  had  formerly  been  both  sancti- 
fied and  strengthened  by  laboring  under  the  command  of 
settled  intention,  and  on  the  ground  of  assured  belief,  Iiad  now 


* Job  .XAi:  ^36-28;  P.saliu  Ixxxix.  37. 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


IV.  infidelTty. 


108 

the  reins  laid  upon  its  neck  by  passion,  and  all  ground  of  fact 
cut  from  beneath  its  feet ; and  tlie  imagination  which  formerly 
had  helped  men  to  apprehend  the  truth,  now  tempted  them  to 
believe  a falsehood.  The  faculties  themselves  wasted  away  in 
their  own  treason ; one  by  one  they  fell  in  the  potter’s  field ; 
and  the  Kaphael  who  seemed  sent  and  inspired  from  heaven 
that  he  might  paint  Apostles  and  Prophets,  sank  at  once  into 
powerlessness  at  the  feet  of  Apollo  and  the  Muses. 

§ cm.  But  this  was  not  all.  The  habit  of  using  tlie  greatest 
gifts  of  imagination  upon  fictitious  subjects,  of  course  destroyed 
the  honor  and  value  of  the  same  imagination  used  in  the  cause 
of  truth.  Exactly  in  the  proportion  in  which  Jupiters  and 
Mercuries  were  embodied  and  believed,  in  that  proportion 
Virgins  and  Angels  were  disembodied  and  disbelieved.  The 
images  summoned  by  art  began  gradually  to  assume  one  average 
value  in  the  spectator’s  mind  ; and  incidents  from  the  Iliad  and 
from  the  Exodus  to  come  within  the  same  degrees  of  credi- 
bility. And,  farther,  while  the  powers  of  the  imagination 
were  becoming  daily  more  and  more  languid,  because  unsup- 
ported by  faith,  the  manual  skill  and  science  of  the  artist  were 
continually  on  the  increase.  When  these  had  reached  a certain 
point,  they  began  to  be  the  principal  things  considered  in  the 
picture,  and  its  story  or  scene  to  be  thought  of  only  as  a theme 
for  their  manifestation.  Observe  the  difference.  In  old  times, 
men  used  their  powers  of  painting  to  show  the  objects  of  faith; 
in  later  times,  they  used  the  objects  of  faith  that  they  might 
show  their  powers  of  painting.  The  distinction  is  enormous, 
the  difference  incalculable  as  irreconcilable.  And  thus,  the 
more  skilful  the  artist,  the  less  his  subject  was  regarded ; and 
the  hearts  of  men  liardeiied  as  their  handling  softened,  until 
they  reached  a point  when  sacred,  profane,  or  sensual  subjects 
were  employed,  with  absolute  indifference,  for  the  display  of 
color  and  execution  ; and  gradually  the  mind  of  Europe  con- 
gealed into  that  state  of  utter  apathy, — inconceivable,  unless  it 
had  been  witnessed,  and  unpardonable,  unless  by  us,  who  have 
been  infected  by  it, — which  permits  us  to  place  the  Madonna 
and  the  Aphrodite  side  l)y  side  in  our  galleries,  and  to  pass. 


IV,  INFIDELITY. 


II.  KOMAK  RENAISSANCE. 


109 


with  the  same  unmoved  inquiry  into  the  manner  of  their  hand-, 
ling,  from  a Bacchanal  to  a Nativity. 

Now  all  this  evil,  observe,  would  have  been  merely  the 
necessary  and  natural  operation  of  an  enthusiasm  for  the 
classics,  and  of  a delight  in  tlie  mere  science  of  the  artist,  on 
the  most  virtuous  mind.  But  this  operation  took  place  upon 
minds  enei*vated  by  luxury,  and  which  were  tempted,  at  the 
very  same  period,  to  forgetfulness  or  denial  of  all  religious 
principle  by  their  own  basest  instincts.  The  faith  which  had 
been  undermined  by  the  genius  of  Pagans,  was  overthrown 
by  the  crimes  of  Christians ; and  the  ruin  which  was  begun 
by  scholarship,  was  completed  by  sensuality.  The  characters 
of  the  heathen  divinities  were  as  suitable  to  the  manners  of 
the  time  as  their  forms  were  agreeable  to  its  taste ; and  Pagan- 
ism again  became,  in  effect,  the  religion  of  Europe.  That 
is  to  say,  the  civilized  world  is  at  this  moment,  collectively, 
just  as  Pagan  as  it  was  in  the  second  century  ; a small  body 
of  believers  being  now,  as  they  were  then,  representative  of 
the  Church  of  Christ  in  the  midst  of  the  faithless : but  there 
is  just  this  difference,  and  this  very  fatal  one,  between  the 
second  and  nineteenth  centuries,  that  the  Pagans  are  nomi- 
nally and  fashionably  Christians,  and  that  there  is  every  con- 
ceivable variety  and  shade  of  belief  between  the  two ; so  that 
not  only  is  it  most  difficult  theoretically  to  mark  the  point 
where  hesitating  trust  and  failing  practice  change  into  definite 
infidelity,  but  it  has  become  a point  of  politeness  not  to  inquire 
too  deeply  into  our  neighbor’s  religions  opinions ; and,  so 
that  no  one  be  offended  by  violent  breach  of  external  forms, 
to  waive  any  close  examination  into  the  tenets  of  faith.  The 
fact  is,  we  distrust  each  other  and  ourselves  so  much,  that 
we  dare  not  pi*ess  this  matter  ; we  know  that  if,  on  any  occa- 
sion of  geiieral  intercourse,  we  turn  to  our  next  neighbor, 
and  put  to  him  some  searching  or  testing  question,  we  shall, 
in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  discover  him  to  be  only  a Christian  in 
his  own  way,  and  as  far  as  he  thinks  proper,  and  that  he 
doubts  of  many  things  which  we  ourselves  do  not  believe 
strongly  enough  to  hear  doubted  without  danger.  "\ATiat  is 


110 


THIED  PEEIOD. 


IV.  INFIDELITY. 


in  reality  cowardice  and’  faithlessness,  we  call  charity;  and 
consider  it  the  part  of  benevolence  sometimes  to  forgive  men’s 
evil  practice  for  the  sake  of  their  accurate  faith,  and  someti  nes 
to  forgive  their  confessed  heresy  for  the  sake  of  ther:  admira- 
ble practice.  And  under  this  shelter  of  charity,  humility,  and 
faintheartedness,  the  world,  unquestioned  by  others  or  by 
itself,  mingles  with  and  overwhelms  the  small  body  of  Chris- 
tians, legislates  for  them,  moralizes  for  them,  reasons  for 
them ; and,  though  itself  of  course  greatly  and  beneficently 
infiuenced  by  the  association,  and  held  much  in  check  by  its 
pretence  to  Christianity,  yet  undermines,  in  nearly  the  same 
degree,  the  sincerity  and  practical  power  of  Christianity  itself, 
until  at  last,  in  the  very  institutions  of  which  the  administra- 
tion may  be  considered  as  the  principal  test  of  the  genuineness 
of  national  religion,  those  devoted  to  education,  the  Pagan 
system  is  completely  triumphant ; and  the  entire  body  of  the 
so-called  Christian  world  has  established  a system  of  instruc- 
tion for  its  youth,  wherein  neither  the  history  of  Christ’s 
Church,  nor  the  language  of  God’s  law",  is  considered  a study 
of  the  smallest  importance  ; w-herein,  of  all  subjects  of  human 
inquiry,  his  own  religion  is  the  one  in  which  a youth’s  igno- 
rance is  most  easily  forgiven  and  in  wdiich  it  is  held  a light 
matter  that  he  should  be  daily  guilty  of  lying,  or  debauchery, 
or  of  blasphemy,  so  only  that  he  write  Latin  verses  accurately, 
and  with  speed. 

I believe  that  in  few  years  more  we  shall  wake  from  all 
these  errors  in  astonishment,  as  from  evil  dreams ; liaving 
been  preserved,  in  the  midst  of  their  madness,  by  those  hidden 
roots  of  active  and  earnest  Christianity  which  God’s  grace 
has  bound  in  the  English  nation  with  iron  and  brass.  But  in 
the  Venetian,  those  roots  themselves  had  withered  ; and,  from 

* I shall  not  forget  the  impression  made  upon  me  at  Oxford,  when,  going 
up  for  my  degree,  and  mentioning  to  one  of  the  authorities  that  I had  not 
had  time  enough  to  read  the  Epistles  properly,  I was  told,  that  “the  Epis- 
tles were  separate  sciences,  and  I need  not  trouble  myself  about  them. 

The  reader  will  had  some  farther  notes  on  this  subject  in  Appendi;s  7^ 
“ Modern  Education/’ 


tv.  TNFTDET.TTY. 


IT.  ROMAN  RENAISSANCE. 


Ill 


the  palace  of  their  ancient  religion,  their  pride  cast  them  forth 
hopelessly  to  the  pasture  of  the  brute.  From  pride  to  infidel- 
ity, from  infidelity  to  the  nnscrnpnlons  and  insatiable  pursuit 
of  pleasure,  and  from  this  to  irremediable  degradation,  the 
transitions  were  swift,  like  the  falling  of  a star.  The  great 
palaces  of  the  haughtiest  nobles  of  Venice  were  stayed,  before 
they  had  risen  far  above  their  foundations,  by  the  blast  of  a 
penal  poverty  ; and  the  wdld  grass,  on  the  unfinished  frag- 
ments of  their  mighty  shafts,  waves  at  the  tide-mark  where 
the  power  of  the  godless  people  first  heard  the  Hitherto 
shalt  thou  come.”  And  the  regeneration  in  which  they  had 
so  vainly  trusted, — the  new  birth  and  clear  dawning,  as  they 
thought  it,  of  all  art,  all  knowledge,  and  all  hope, — became 
to  them  as  that  dawn  which  Ezekiel  saw  on  the  hills  of 
Israel:  Behold  the  day;  behold,  it  is  come.  The  rod  hath 

blossomed,  pride  hath  budded,  violence  is  risen  up  into  a rod 
of  wickedness.  None  of  them  shall  remain,  nor  of  their  mul- 
titude ; let  not  the  buyer  rejoice,  nor  the  seller  mourn,  for 
wrath  is  upon  all  the  multitude  thereof.” 


CHAPTEE  IIL 


GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE. 

§ I.  In  the  close  of  the  last  chapter  it  was  noted  that  the 
phases  of  transition  in  the  moral  temper  of  the  falling  Vene- 
tians, during  their  fall,  were  from  pride  to  infidelity,  and  from 
infidelity  to  the  unscrupulous  of  pleasu7^e.  During 

the  last  years  of  the  existence  of  the  state,  the  minds  both  of 
the  nobility  and  the  people  seem  to  have  been  set  simply  upon 
the  attainment  of  the  means  of  self-indulgence.  There  was 
not  strength  enough  in  them  to  be  proud,  nor  forethought 
enough  to  be  ambitious.  One  by  one  the  possessions  of  the 
state  were  abandoned  to  its  enemies ; one  by  one  the  channels 
of  its  trade  were  forsaken  by  its  own  languor,  or  occupied  and 
closed  against  it  by  its  more  energetic  rivals ; and  the  time, 
the  resources,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  nation  were  exclusively 
occupied  in  the  invention  of  such  fantastic  and  costly  pleasures 
as  might  best  amuse  their  apathy,  lull  their  remorse,  or  dis- 
guise their  ruin. 

§ II.  The  architecture  raised  at  Venice  during  this  period  is 
amongst  the  worst  and  basest  ever  built  by  the  hands  of  men, 
being  especially  distinguished  by  a spirit  of  brutal  mockery 
and  insolent  jest,  which,  exhausting  itself  in  deformed  and 
monstrous  sculpture,  can  sometimes  be  hardly  otherwise  defined 
than  as  the  perpetuation  in  stone  of  the  ribaldries  of  drunk- 
enness. On  such  a period,  and  on  such  work,  it  is  painful  to 
dwell,  and  I had  not  originally  intended  to  do  so ; but  I found 
that  the  entire  spirit  of  the  Kenaissance  could  not  be  compre- 
hended unless  it  was  followed  to  its  consummation ; and  that 
there  were  many  most  interesting  questions  arising  out  of  the 
study  of  this  particular  spirit  of  jesting,  with  reference  to 


III.  GKOTESQUE  UEKAISSANOE. 


113 


which  I have  called  it  the  Grotesq^ue  Renaissance,  hor  it  is 
not  this  period  alone  which  is  distinguished  by  such  a spirit. 
There  is  jest — perpetual,  careless,  and  not  unfi'equently  obscene 
- — in  tlie  most  noble  work  of  the  Gothic  periods ; and  it 
becomes,  therefore,  of  the  greatest  possible  importance  to 
examine  into  the  nature  and  essence  of  the  Grotesque  itself, 
and  to  ascertain  in  w^liat  respect  it  is  that  the  jesting  of  art  in 
its  iiighest  flight,  differs  from  its  jesting  in  its  utmost  degra- 
dation. 

§ III.  The  place  wliere  we  may  best  commence  our  inquiry 
is  one  renowned  in  the  liistory  of  Yenice,  the  space  of  ground 
before  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria  Formosa  ; a spot  which, 
after  the  Rialto  and  St.  Mark’s  Place,  ouglit  to  possess  a pecu- 
liar interest  in  the  mind  of  the  traveller,  in  consequence  of  its 
connexion  with  the  most  touching  and  true  legend  of  the 
Brides  of  Yenice.  That  legend  is  related  at  length  in  every 
Yenetian  history,  and.  Anally,  has  been  told  by  the  poet 
Rogers,  in  a way  which  renders  it  impossible  for  any  one  to 
tell  it  after  him.  I have  only,  therefore,  to  remind  the  reader 
that  the  capture  of  the  brides  took  place  in  the  cathedral 
church,  St.  Pietro  di  Gastello ; and  that  this  of  Santa  Maria 
Formosa  is  connected  wdtli  the  tale,  only  because  it  w^as  yearly 
visited  with  prayers  by  the  Yenetian  maidens,  on  the  anniver- 
sary of  their  ancestors’  deliverance.  For  that  deliverance, 
their  thanks  were  to  be  rendered  to  the  Yirgin  ; and  there  was 
no  church  then  dedicated  to  the  Yirgin,  in  Yenice,  except 
this.* 

Neither  of  the  cathedral  church,  nor  of  this  dedicated  to 
St.  Mary  the  Beautiful,  is  one  stone  left  upon  another.  But, 
from  that  w^hich  has  been  raised  on  the  site  of  the  latter,  w^e 
may  receive  a most  important  lesson,  introductory  to  our  im- 
mediate subject,  if  first  we  glance  back  to  the  traditional  his- 
tory of  the  church  wdiich  has  been  destroyed. 

§ IV.  No  more  honorable  epithet  than  “traditional”  can 

* Mutinelli,  Annali  Urbani,  lib.  i.  p.  24;  and  the  Chronicle  of  1738, 
quoted  by  Galliciolli;  “ attrovandosi  allora  lagiesia  de  Sta.  Maria  Formosa 
sola  glesia  del  nome  della  gloriosa  Yorginc  Maria.” 


114 


TIIIKD  PERIOD. 


be  attaclied  to  what  is  recorded  concerning  it,  yet  I should 
grieve  to  lose  the  legend  of  its  first  erection.  The  Bishop  of 
llderzo,  driven  by  the  Lombards  from  liis  Bishopric,  as  he 
was  praying,  belield  in  a vision  the  Virgin  Mother,  who 
ordered  him  to  found  a church  in  lier  honor,  in  the  place 
where  he  should  see  a white  cloud  rest.  And  when  he  went 
out,  the  white  cloud  went  before  him ; and  on  the  place 
where  it  rested  he  built  a church,  and  it  was  called  the  Church 
of  St.  Mary  the  Beautiful,  from  the  loveliness  of  the  form  in 
which  she  had  appeared  in  the  vision.* 

The  first  church  stood  only  for  about  two  centuries.  It  was 
rebuilt  in  864,  and  enriched  with  various  relics  some  fifty 
years  later;  relics  belonging  principally  to  St.  Isicodemus, 
and  much  lamented  when  they  and  the  church  were  together 
destroyed  by  fire  in  1105. 

It  was  then  rebuilt  in  ^•magnifica  forma,”  much  resembling, 
according  to  Corner,  the  architecture  of  the  chancel  of  St. 
Mark ; f but  the  information  which  I find  in  various  writers, 
as  to  the  period  at  which  it  was  reduced  to  its  j)i*esent  con- 
dition, is  both  sparing  and  contradictory. 

§ V.  Thus,  by  Corner,  we  are  told  that  this  church,  resem- 
bling St.  Mark’s,  remained  untouched  for  more  than  four 
centuries,”  until,  in  1689,  it  was  thrown  down  by  an  earth- 
quake, and  restored  by  the  piety  of  a rich  merchant,  Turrin 
Toroni,  ornatissima  forma;”  and  that,  for  the  greater 
beauty  of  the  renewed  church,  it  had  added  to  it  two  fagades 
of  marble.  With  this  information  that  of  the  Padre  dell’ 
Oratoria  agrees,  only  he  gives  the  date  of  the  earlier  rebuild- 
ing of  the  church  in  1175,  and  ascribes  it  to  an  architect  of  the 
name  of  Barbetta.  But  Quadri,  in  his  usually  accurate  little 

*Of  from  the  brightness  of  the  cloud,  according  to  the  Padre  who 
arranged  the  “ Memorie  delle  Chiese  di  Venezia,”  vol.  iii.  p.  7.  Compare 
Corner,  p.  42.  This  first  church  was  built  in  639. 

t Perliaps  both  Corner  and  the  Padre  founded  their  diluted  information 
on  the  short  sentence  of  Sansovino  : “ Finahnente,  1’  anno  1075,  fu  ridotta 
a perfezione  da  Paolo  Barbetta,  sul  model lo  del  corpo  di  mezzo  della  chiesa 
di  S.  Marco.”  Sansovino,  however,  gives  842,  instead  of  864,  as  the  date 
of  the  first  rebuilding. 


111.  GROTESQUE  RE^s^AISSAXCE. 


115 


guide,  tells  us  that  this  Barbetta  rebuilt  the  church  in 
the  fourteenth  century ; and  that  of  the  two  facades,  so  much 
admired  by  Corner,  one  is  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  its 
architect  unknown ; and  the  rest  of  the  church  is  of  the  seven- 
teenth, in  the  style  of  Sansovino.” 

§ VI.  There  is  no  occasion  to  examine,  or  endeavor  to  recon- 
cile, these  conflicting  accounts.  All  that  is  necessary  for  the 
reader  to  know  is,  that  every  vestige  of  the  church  in  which 
the  ceremony  took  place  was  destroyed  at  least  as  early  as 
1689  ; and  that  the  ceremony  itself,  having  been  abolished  in 
the  close  of  the  fourteenth  century,  is  only  to  be  conceived  as 
taking  place  in  that  more  ancient  church,  resembling  St. 
Mark’s,  wdiich,  even  according  to  Quadri,  existed  until  that 
period.  I would,  therefore,  endeavor  to  fix  the  reader’s 
mind,  for  a moment,  on  the  contrast  between  the  former  and 
latter  aspect  of  this  plot  of  ground ; the  former,  when  it  had 
its  Byzantine  church,  and  its  yearly  procession  of  the  Doge 
and  the  Brides ; and  the  latter,  when  it  has  its  Eenaissance 
church  in  the  style  of  Sansovino,”  and  its  yearly  honoring  is 
done  away. 

§ VII.  And,  first,  let  us  consider  for  a little  the  significance 
and  nobleness  of  that  early  custom  of  the  Venetians,  which 
brought  about  the  attack  and  the  rescue  of  the  year  943  : that 
tliere  should  be  but  one  marriage  day  for  the  nobles  of  the 
whole  nation,'^  so  that  all  might  rejoice  together;  and  that 
the  sympathy  might  be  full,  not  only  of  the  families  who  that 
year  beheld  the  alliance  of  their  children,  and  prayed  for 
them  in  one  crowd,  weeping  before  the  altar,  but  of  all  the 
families  of  the  state,  who  saw,  in  the  day  which  brought  hap- 
piness to  others,  the  anniversary  of  their  own.  Imagine  the 
strong  bond  of  brotherhood  thus  sanctified  among  them,  and 
consider  also  the  effect  on  the  minds  of  the  youth  of  the  state ; 
the  greater  deliberation  and  openness  necessarily  given  to  the 
contemplation  of  marriage,  to  which  all  the  people  were 

Or  at  least  for  its  principal  families.  Vide  Appendix  8,  “ Early  Vene- 
tian Marriages.’’ 


no 


■ THIRD  PERIOD. 


solemnly  to  bear  testimony  ; tlie  more  lofty  and  nnselfisli  tone 
wliich  it  would  give  to  all  their  thoughts.  It  was  the  exact 
contrary  of  stolen  marriage.  It  was  marriage  to  which  God 
and  man  were  taken  for  witnesses,  and  every  eye  was  invoked 
for  its  glance,  and  every  tongue  for  its  prayers."^ 

§ VIII.  Later  historians  have  delighted  themselves  in  dwell- 
ing on  the  pageantry  of  the  marriage  day  itself,  but  I do  not 
find  that  they  have  authority  for  the  splendor  of  their  descrip- 
tions. I cannot  find  a word  in  the  older  Chronicles  about  the 
jewels  or  dress  of  the  brides,  and  I believe  the  ceremony  to 
have  been  more  quiet  and  homely  than  is  usually  supposed. 
The  only  sentence  which  gives  color  to  the  usual  accounts  of 
it  is  one  of  Sansovino’s,  in  which  he  says  that  the  magnificent 
dress  of  the  brides  in  his  day  was  founded  on  ancient  cus- 
tom.” f However  this  may  have  been,  the  circumstances  of 
the  rite  were  otherwise  very  simple.  Each  maiden  brought 
her  dowry  with  her  in  a small  cassetta,”  or  chest;  they 
went  first  to  the  cathedral,  and  waited  for  the  youths,  who' 
having  come,  they  heard  mass  together,  and  the  bishop 
preached  to  them  and  blessed  them : and  so  each  bridegroom 
took  his  bride  and  her  dowry  and  bore  her  home. 

§ IX.  It  seems  that  the  alarm  given  by  the  attack  of  the 

* "‘Nazionale  quasi  la  ceremonia,  perciocche  per  essa  nuovi  difensori  ad 
acquistar  andava  la  patria,  sostegni  nuovi  le  leggi,  la  liberta.” — MutinelU. 

f “Yestita,  per  antico  uso,  di  bianco,  e con  cliiome  sparse  giu  per  le 
spalle,  conteste  con  fila  d’  oro.”  “Dressed  according  to  ancient  usage  in 
white,  and  with  her  hair  thrown  down  upon  her  shoulders,  interwoven  with 
threads  of  gold.”  This  was  when  she  was  first  brought  out  of  lier  chamber 
to  be  seen  by  the  guests  invited  to  the  espousals.  “ And  when  the  form  of 
the  espousal  has  been  gone  through,  she  is  led,  to  the  sound  of  pipes  and 
trumpets,  and  other  musical  instruments,  round  the  room,  dancing  serenely 
all  the  time,  and  hoicing  herself  before  the  guests  (ballando  placidamente,  e 
facendo  inchini  ai  convitati);  and  so  she  returns  fo  her  chamber:  and  when 
other  guests  have  arrived,  she  again  comes  forth,  and  makes  the  circuit  of 
the  chamber.  And  this  is  repeated  for  an  hour  or  somewhat  more  ; and 
then,  accompanied  by  many  ladies  who  wait  for  her,  she  enters  a gondola 
without  its  felze  (canopjO,  and,  seated  on  a somewhat  raised  seat  covered 
with  carpets,  with  a great  number  of  gondolas  following  her,  she  goes  to 
visit  the  monasteries  and  convents,  wlu'resoever  she  has  any  relations. 


Hi,  GliOXEStiUE  KE:>sAISSAXCE. 


IIT 


pirates  put  an  end  to  the  custom  of  fixing  one  day  for  all 
marriages : but  the  main  objects  of  the  institution  were  still 
attained  by  the  perfect  publicity  given  to  the  marriages  of  all 
the  noble  families ; the  bridegroom  standing  in  the  Court  of 
the  Ducal  Palace  to  receive  congratulations  on  his  betrothal, 
and  the  whole  body  of  the  nobility  attending  the  nuptials,  and 
rejoicing,  ‘^as  at  some  personal  good  fortune;  since,  by  the 
constitution  of  the  state,  they  are  for  ever  incorporated  to- 
gether, as  if  of  one  and  the  same  family.”  ^ But  the  festival 
of  the  2nd  of  February,  after  the  year  943,  seems  to  have  been 
observed  only  in  memory  of  the  deliverance  of  the  brides,  and 
no  longer  set  apart  for  public  nuptials. 

§ X.  There  is  much  difficulty  in  reconciling  The  various 
accounts,  or  distinguishing  the  inaccurate  ones,  of  the  manner 
of  keeping  this  memorable  festival.  I shall  first  give  Sanso- 
vino’s, which  is  the  popular  one,  and  then  note  the  points  of 
I importance  in  the  counter-statements.  Sansovino  says  that 
I the  success  of  the  pursuit  of  the  pirates  was  owing  to  the  ready 
I help  and  hard  fighting  of  the  men  of  the  district  of  Sta.  Maria 
I Formosa,  for  the  most  part  trunkmakers ; and  that  they, 
j having  been  presented  after  the  victory  to  the  Doge  and  the 
■ Senate,  were  told  to  ask  some  favor  for  their  reward.  The 
i good  men  then  said  that  they  desired  the  Prince,  with  his 
I wife  and  the  Signory,  to  visit  every  year  the  church  of  their 
district,  on  the  day  of  its  feast.  And  the  Prince  asking  them, 

; ^Suppose  it  should  rain?’  they  answered,  ^ We  will  give  you 
i hats  to  cover  you  ; and  if  yon  are  thirsty,  we  will  give  you  to 
drink.’  Whence  is  it  that  the  Yicar,  in  the  name  of  the  people, 
presents  to  the  Doge,  on  his  visit,  two  flasks  of  malvoisief  and 
two  oranges ; and  presents  to  him  two  gilded  hats,  bearing  the 
arms  of  the  Pope,  of  the  Prince,  and  of  the  Vicar.  And  thus 
’ was  instituted  the  Feast  of  the  Maries,  which  was  called  noble 

* Sansovino. 

f English,  “Malmsey.”  The  reader  will  find  a most  amusing  account 
of  the  negotiations  between  the  English  and  Venetians,  touching  the  supply 
' of  London  with  this  wine,  in  Mr.  Brown’s  translation  of  the  Giustiniani 
I papers.  See  Appendix  IX. 


118 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


and  famous  because  the  people  from  all  round  came  together 
to  behold  it.  And  it  was  celebrated  in  this  manner 
The  account  wliich  follows  is  somewhat  prolix  ; but  its  substance 
is,  briefly,  that  twelve  maidens  were  elected,  two  for  each  divi- 
sion of  the  city  ; and  that  it  was  decided  by  lot  which  contrade, 
or  quarters  of  the  town,  should  provide  them  with  dresses. 
This  was  done  at  enormous  expense,  one  contrada  contending 
with  another,  and  even  the  jewels  of  the  treasury  of  St.  Mark 
being  lent  for  the  occasion  to  the  Maries,”  as  the  twelve 
damsels  were  called.  They,  being  thus  dressed  with  gold,  and 
silver,  and  jewels,  went  in  their  galley  to  St.  Mark’s  for  the 
Doge,  who  joined  them  with  the  Signory,  and  went  first  to 
San  Pietro  di  Gastello  to  hear  mass  on  St.  Mark’s  day,  the 
31st  of  January,  and  to  Santa  Maria  Formosa  on  the  2nd  of 
February,  the  intermediate  day  being  spent  in  passing  in 
procession  through  the  streets  of  the  city  ; ^^and  sometimes 
there  arose  quarrels  about  the  places  they  should  pass  through, 
for  every  one  wanted  them  to  pass  by  his  house.” 

§ XI.  Nearly  the  same  account  is  given  by  Corner,  who, 
however,  does  not  say  anything  about  the  hats  or  the  malvoisie. 
These,  however,  we  find  again  in  the  Matricola  de’  Casseleri, 
which;  of  course,  sets  the  services  of  the  trunkmakers  and  the 
privileges  obtained  by  them  in  the  most  brilliant  light.  The 
quaintness  of  the  old  Venetian  is  hardly  to  be  rendered  into 
English.  “ And  you  must  know  that  the  said  trunkmakers 
were  the  men  who  were  the  cause  of  such  victory,  and  of 
taking  the  galley,  and  of  cutting  all  the  Triestines  to  pieces, 
because,  at  that  time,  they  were  valiant  men  and  well  in  order. 
The  which  victory  was  on  the  2nd  February,  on  the  day  of  the 
Madonna  of  candles.  And  at  the  request  and  entreaties  of  the 
said  trunkmakers,  it  was  decreed  that  the  Doge,  every  year, 
as  long  as  Venice  shall  endure,  should  go  on  the  eve  of  the 
said  feast  to  vespers  in  the  said  church,  with  the  Signory. 
And  be  it  noted,  that  the  vicar  is  obliged  to  give  to  the  Doge 
two  flasks  of  malvoisie,  with  two  oranges  besides.  And  so 
it  is  observed,  and  will  be  observed  always.”  The  reader 
must  observe  the  continual  confusion  between  St.  Mark’s  da^ 


III.  GKOTEJSQUE  REXAISSAXCE. 


119 


the  31st  of  January,  and  Candlemas  the  2nd  of  February. 

I The  fact  appears  to  be,  that  the  marriage  day  in  the  old 
republic  was  St.  Mark’s  day,  and  the  recovery  of  the  brides 
was  the  same  day  at  evening  ; so  that,  as  we  are  told  by 
Sansovino,  the  commemorative  festival  began  on  that  day,  but 
it  was  continued  to  the  day  of  the  Purification,  that  especial 
, thanks  might  be  rendered  to  the  Yirgin;  and,  the  visit  to 
Sta.  Maria  Formosa  being  the  most  important  ceremony  of  the 
whole  festival,  the  old  chroniclers,  and  even  Sansovino,  got 
confused,  and  asserted  the  victory  itself  to  have  taken  place 
. on  the  day  appointed  for  that  pilgrimage. 

§ XII.  I doubt  not  that  the  reader  who  is  acquainted  with 
! the  beautiful  lines  of  Eogers  is  as  much  grieved  as  I am  at  the 
interference  of  the  “ casket-makers  ” with  the  achievement 
which  the  poet  ascribes  to  the  bridegrooms  alone ; an  inter- 
j ference  quite  as  inopportune  as  that  of  old  Le  Balafre  with 
j the  victory  of  his  nephew,  in  the  unsatisfactory  conclusion  of 
‘ Quentin  Durward.”  I am  afraid  I cannot  get  the  casket- 
1 makers  quite  out  of  the  way ; but  it  may  gratify  some  of  my 
I readers  to  know  that  a chronicle  of  the  year  1378,  quoted  by 
I Galliciolli,  denies  the  agency  of  the  people  of  Sta.  Maria 
i Formosa  altogether,  in  these  terms:  Some,  say  that  the  peo- 

! pie  of  Sta.  M.  Formosa  were  those  who  recovered  the  spoil 
(^^liredra;”  I may  notice,  in  passing,  that  most  of  the  old 
clironiclers  appear  to  consider  the  recovery  of  the  caskets 
rather  more  a subject  of  congratulation  than  that  of  tlie 
brides),  and  that,  for  their  reward,  they  asked  the  Doge  and 
Signory  to  visit  Sta.  M.  Formosa;  but  this  is  false.  The 
going  to  Sta.  M.  Formosa  was  because  the  thing  had  succeeded 
on  that  day,  and  because  this  was  then  the  only  church  in 
Venice  in  honor  of  the  Yirgin.”  But  here  is  again  the  mis- 
take about  the  day  itself  ; and  besides  if  we  get  rid  altogether 
of  the  trunkmakers,  how  are  we  to  account  for  the  ceremony 
of  the  oranges  and  hats,  of  which  the  accounts  seem  authentic  ? 
If,  however,  the  reader  likes  to  substitute  ^^carpenters’’  or 
‘‘house-builders”  for  casket-makers,  lie  may  do  so  with  great 
reason  (vide  Galliciolli,  lib.  ii.  § 1758);  but  I fear  that  one  or 


120 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


the  other  body  of  tradesmen  must  be  allowed  to  have  had  no 
small  share  in  the  honor  of  the  victory, 

§ XIII.  But  whatever  doubt  attaches  to  the  particular  cir- 
cumstances of  its  origin,  there  is  none  respecting  the  splendor 
of  the  festival  itself,  as  it  was  celebrated  for  four  centuries 
afterwards.  We  find  that  each  contrada  spent  from  800  to 
1000  zecchins  in  the  dress  of  the  Maries’’ entrusted  to  it; 
l)ut  I cannot  find  among  how  many  contrade  the  twelve  Maries 
were  divided ; it  is  also  to  be  supposed  that  most  of  the 
accounts  given  refer  to  the  later  periods  of  the  celebration  of 
the  festival.  In  the  beginning  of  the  eleventh  century,  the 
good  Doge  Pietro  Orseolo  II.  left  in  his  will  the  third  of  his 
entire  fortune  ‘^]3er  la  Festa  della  Marie;”  and,  in  the  four- 
teenth century,  so  many  people  came  from  the  rest  of  Italy  to 
see  it,  that  special  police  regulations  were  made  for  it,  and  the 
Council  of  Ten  were  twice  summoned  before  it  took  place.^' 
The  expense  lavished  upon  it  seems  to  have  increased  till  the 
year  1379,  when  all  the  resources  of  the  republic  were  required 
for  the  terrible  war  of  Chiozza,  and  all  festivity  was  for 
that  time  put  an  end  to.  The  issue  of  the  war  left  the  Yene- 
tians  with  neither  the  power  nor  the  disposition  to  restore  the 
festival  on  its  ancient  scale,  and  they  seem  to  have  been 
ashamed  to  exhibit  it  in  reduced  splendor.  It  was  entirely 
abolished. 

§ XIV.  As  if  to  do  away  even  with  its  memory,  every  fea- 
ture of  the  surrounding  scene  which  was  associated  with  that 
festival  has  been  in  succeeding  ages  destroyed.  With  one  soli- 
tary exception, f there  is  not  a house  left  in  the  whole  Piazza 
of  Santa  Maria  Formosa  from  whose  windows  the  festa  of  the 
Maries  has  ever  been  seen : of  the  church  in  which  they  wor- 
shipped, not  a stone  is  left,  even  the  form  of  the  ground  and 
direction  of  the  neighboring  canals  are  changed  ; and  there  is 
now  but  one  landmark  to  guide  the  steps  of  the  traveller  to 
the  place  where  the  white  cloud  rested,  and  the  shrine  was 

* “XV.  diebiis  et  octo  diebus  ante  festum  Mai’iarum  omni  anno.” — Gal- 
vidolU,  The  same  precautions  were  taken  before  the  fcfist  of  the  Ascension. 

f Casa  V it  turn,  , 


III.  GROTESQUE  REilAISSA^ICE. 


121 


' built  to  St.  Mary  the  Beautiful.  Yet  the  spot  is  still  worth 
j his  pilgrimage,  for  he  may  receive  a lesson  upon  it,  though  a 
; painful  one.  Let  him  first  fill  his  mind  with  the  fair  images 
i of  the  ancient  festival,  and  then  seek  that  landmark  the  tower 
of  the  modern  church,  built  upon  the  place  where  the  daughters 
of  Yenice  knelt  yearly  with  her  noblest  lords;  and  let  him 
look  at  the  head  that  is  carved  on  the  base  of  the  tower,^  still 
dedicated  to  St.  Mary  the  Beautiful. 

§ XV.  A head, — huge,  inhuman,  and  monstrous, — leering  in 
bestial  degradation,  too  foul  to  be  either  pictured  or  described, 

; or  to  be  beheld  for  more  than  an  instant : yet  let  it  be  endured 
I for  that  instant ; for  in  that  head  is  embodied  the  type  of  the 
' evil  spirit  to  which  Yenice  was  abandoned  in  the  fourtli  period 
of  her  decline  ; and  it  is  well  that  we  should  see  and  feel  the 
^ full  horror  of  it  on  this  spot,  and  know  what  pestilence  it  was 
I that  came  and  breathed  upon  her  beaaty,  until  it  melted  away 
t like  the  white  cloud  from  the  ancient  fields  of  Santa  Maria 
S Formosa. 

I § XVI.  This  head  is  one  of  many  hundreds  which  disgrace 
[ the  latest  buildings  of  the  city,  all  more  or  less  agreeing  in 
! their  expression  of  sneering  mockery,  in  most  cases  enhanced 
j by  thrusting  out  the  tongue.  Most  of  them  occur  upon  the 
bridges,  which  were  among  the  very  last  works  undertaken  by 
the  republic,  several,  for  instance,  upon  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ; 
and  they  are  evidences  of  a delight  in  the  contemplation  of 
bestial  vice,  and  the  expression  of  low  sarcasm,  which  is,  I be- 
lieve, the  most  hopeless  state  into  which  the  human  mind  can 
fall.  This  spirit  of  idiotic  mockery  is,  as  I have  said,  the  most 
striking  characteristic  of  the  last  period  of  the  Renaissance, 
which,  in  consequence  of  the  character  thus  imparted  to  its 
sculpture,  I have  called  grotesque ; but  it  must  be  our  imme- 
diate task,  and  it  will  be  a most  interesting  one,  to  distinguish 
between  this  base  grotesqueness,  and  that  magnificent  condition 
of  fantastic  imagination,  which  was  above  noticed  as  one  of  the 
chief  elements  of  the  Northern  Gothic  mind.  Nor  is  this  a 


* The  keystone  of  the  arch  on  its  western  side,  facing  the  canal. 


122 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


question  of  interesting  speculation  merely  : for  the  distinction 
between  the  true  and  false  grotesque  is  one  which  the  present 
tendencies  of  the  Englisli  mind  have  rendered  it  practically 
important  to  ascertain  ; and  that  in  a degree  which,  until  he 
has  made  some  progress  in  the  consideration  of  the  subject,  the 
reader  will  hardly  anticipate. 

§ XVII.  But,  first,  I have  to  note  one  peculiarity  in  the  late 
architecture  of  Venice,  which  wdll  mateidally  assist  us  in  un- 
derstanding the  true  nature  of  the  spirit  which  is  to  be  the  sub- 
ject of  our  inquiry ; and  this  peculiarity,  singulai’ly  enough,  is 
first  exemplified  in  the  very  facade  of  Santa  Maria  Formosa 
which  is  flanked  by  the  grotesque  head  to  wdiich  our  attention 
has  just  been  directed.  This  fagade,  whose  architect  is  un- 
known, consists  of  a pediment,  sustained  on  four  Corinthian 
pilasters,  and  is,  I believe,  the  earliest  in  Venice  which  appears 
entirely  destitute  of  every  religious  symbol^  seuljpUire^  or  in- 
seription  / unless  the  Cardinal’s  hat  upon  the  shield  in  the 
centre  of  the  impediment  be  considered  a religious  symbol. 
The  entire  fagade  is* nothing  else  than  a monument  to  the  Ad- 
miral Vincenzo  Cappello.  Two  tablets,  one  between  each  pair 
of  flanking  pillars,  record  his  acts  and  honors  ; and,  on  the  cor- 
responding spaces  upon  the  base  of  the  church,  are  two  circular 
trophies,  composed  of  halberts,  arrows,  flags,  tridents,  helmets, 
and  lances : sculptures  which  are  just  as  valueless  in  a military 
as  in  an  ecclesiastical  point  of  view ; for,  being  all  copied  from 
the  forms  of  Roman  arms  and  armor,  they  cannot  even  be  re- 
ferred to  for  information  respecting  the  costume  of  the  period. 
Over  the  door,  as  the  chief  ornament  of  the  fagade,  exactly  in 
the  spot  which  in  the  barbai’ous”  St.  Mark’s  is  occupied  by 
the  figure  of  Christ,  is  the  statue  of  Vincenzo  Cappello,  in 
Roman  armor.  He  died  in  15d2  ; and  we  have,  therefore,  the 
latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  century  fixed  as  the  period  when,  in 
Venice,  churches  were  first  built  to  the  glory  of  man,  instead 
of  the  glory  of  God. 

§ XVIII.  Throughout  the  whole  of  Scripture  history,  nothing 
is  more  remarkable  than  the  close  connection  of  punishment 
with  the  sin  of  vain-glory.  Evei*y  other  sin  is  occasionally  per- 


III.  GlIOTESQUE  KENAISSAXCE. 


123 


iiiitted  to  remain,  for  lengtliened  periods,  without  definite 
ehastisement ; but  the  forgetfulness  of  God,  and  the  claim  of 
honor  by  man,  as  belonging  to  himself,  are  visited  at  once, 
whether  in  Hezekiah,  Nebuchadnezzar,  or  Herod,  with  the 
most  tremendous  punishment.  We  have  already  seen,  that  the 
lii’st  reason  for  the  fall  of  Venice  was  the  manifestation  of  such 
a spirit ; and  it  is  most  singular  to  observe  the  definiteness  with 
which  it  is  here  marked, — as  if  so  appointed,  that  it  might  be 
impossible  for  future  ages  to  miss  the  lesson.  For,  in  the  long 
inscrijitions'^  which  record  the  acts  of  Vincenzo  Cappello,  it 
might,  at  least,  have  been  anticij^ated  that  some  expressions 
would  occur  indicative  of  remaining  pretence  to  religious  feel- 
ing, or  formal  acknowledgement  of  Divine  powder.  But  there 
are  none  whatever.  The  name  of  God  does  not  once  occur ; 
that  of  St.  Mark  is  found  only  in  the  statement  that  Cappello 
was  a procurator  of  the  church : there  is  no  word  touching 
either  on  the  faith  or  hojie  of  the  deceased ; and  the  only  sen- 

* The  inscriptions  are  as  follows  : 

To  the  left  of  the  reader. 

“vmCENTIUS  CAPELLUS  MARITIMARUM 
RERTJM  PERITISSIMUS  ET  ANTIQUORUM 
LAUDIBUS  PAR,  TRIREMIUM  ONERARIA 
RUM  PR^FECTUS,  AB  HENRICO  VII.  BRI 
TANNIH5  REGE  INSIGNE  DONATES  CLAS 
SIS  LEGATES  V.  IMP.  DESIG.  TER  CLAS 
SEM  DEDUXIT,  COLLAPSAM  NAVALEM  DIS 
CIPLINAM  RESTITUIT,  AD  ZACXINTHUM 
AURI^  C^SARIS  LEGATO  PRISCAM 
VENETAM  VIRTUTEM  OSTENDIT.” 

To  the  right  of  the  reader. 

“in  AMBRACIO  sine  BARBARUSSUM  OTTHO 
MANIC^  CLASSIS  DUCEM  INCLUSIT 
POSTRIDIE  AD  INTERNITIONEM  DELETE 
RES  NISI  FATA  CHRISTIANIS  ADVERSA 
VETUISSENT.  IN  RYZONICO  SINE  CASTRO  NOVO 
EXPUGNATO  DIVI  MARCI  PROCUR 
ENIVERSO  REIP  CONSENSU  CREATES 
IN  PATRIA  MORITUR  TOTIUS  CIYITATIS 
MCERORE,  ANNO  ^TATIS  LXXIV.  MDCXLII.  XIV.  KAL  S1ETT. 


124 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


tence  which  alludes  to  supernatural  powers  at  all,  alludes  to 
them  under  the  heathen  name  of  fates^  in  its  explanation  of 
what  the  Admiral  Cappello  would  have  accomplished,  nisi 
fata  Christianis  adversa  vetuissent.” 

§ XIX.  Having  taken  sufficient  note  of  all  the  baseness  of 
mind  wliich  these  facts  indicate  in  the  people,  we  shall  not  be 
surprised  to  find  immediate  signs  of  dotage  in  the  conception 
of  their  architecture.  The  churches  raised  throughout  this 
period  are  so  grossly  debased,  that  even  the  Italian  critics  of 
the  present  day,  who  are  partially  awakened  to  the  true  state 
of  art  in  Italy,  though  blind,  as  yet,  to  its  true  cause,  exhaust 
their  terms  of  reproach  upon  these  last  efforts  of  the  Renais- 
sance builders.  The  two  churches  of  San  Moise  and  Santa 
Maria  Zobenigo,  which  are  among  the  most  remarkable  in  Venice 
for  their  manifestation  of  insolent  atheism,  are  characterized  by 
Lazari,  the  one  as  “culmine  d’  ogni  follia  architettonica,”  the 
other  as  orrido  ammasso  di  pietra  d’  Istria,”  with  added  expres- 
sions of  contempt,  as  just  as  it  is  unmitigated. 

§ XX.  Now  both  these  churches,  which  I should  like  the 
reader  to  visit  in  succession,  if  possible,  after  that  of  Sta. 
Maria  Formosa,  agree  with  that  church,  and  with  each  other, 
in  being  totally  destitute  of  religious  symbols,  and  entirely 
dedicated  to  the  honor  of  two  Venetian  families.  In  San 
Moise,  a bust  of  Vincenzo  Fini  is  set  on  a tall  narrow  pyramid, 
above  the  central  door,  with  this  marvellous  inscription  : 

‘ ‘ OMNE  FASTIGIVM 
VIRTVTE  IMPLET 
VINCENTIVS  FINI.” 

It  is  very  difficult  to  translate  this ; for  fastigium,  besides 
its  general  sense,  has  a particular  one  in  architecture,  and  refers 
to  the  part  of  the  building  occupied  by  the  bust ; but  the  main 
meaning  of  it  is  that  Vincenzo  Fini  fills  all  height  with  his 
virtue.”  The  inscription. goes  on  into  farther  praise,  but  this  ex- 
ample is  enough.  Over  the  two  lateral  doors  are  two  other 
laudatory  inscriptions  of' younger  members  of  the  Fini  family, 
the  dates  of  death  of  the  three  heroes  being  1660,  1685,  and 
1726,  marking  thus  the  period  of  consummate  degradation. 


HI 


III.  GROTESQUE  RE^IAISSANCE. 


125 


§ XXI.  In  like  manner,  the  Olinrcli  of  Santa  Maria  Zobenigo 
is  entirely  dedicated  to  the  Barbaro  family ; the  only  religions 
symbols  with  which  it  is  invested  being  statues  of  angels  blow- 
ing brazen  trumpets,  intended  to  express  the  spreading  of  the 
fame  of  the  Barbaro  family  in  heaven.  At  the  top  of  the 
church  is  Venice  crowned,  between  Justice  and  Temperance, 
Justice  holding  a pair  of  grocer’s  scales,  of  iron,  swinging  in 
tlie  wdnd.  There  is  a two-necked  stone  eagle  (the  Barbaro 
crest),  with  a copper  crown,  in  the  centre  of  the  pediment. 
A huge  statue  of  a Barbaro  in  armor,  with  a fantastic  head- 
dress, over  the  central  door ; and  four  Barbaros  in  niches,  two 
on  each  side  of  it,  strutting  statues,  in  the  common  stage 
postures  of  the  period, — Jo.  Maria  Barbaro,  sapiens  ordinum  ; 
Marinus  Barbaro,  Senator  (reading  a speech  in  a Ciceronian 
attitude);  Franc.  Barbaro,  legatus  in  classe  (in  armor,  with 
high-heeled  boots,  and  looking  resolutely  fierce) ; and  Carolus 
Barbaro,  sapiens  ordinum : the  decorations  of  the  facade  being 
completed  by  two  trophies,  consisting  of  drums,  trumpets,  flags 
and  cannon;  and 'six  plans,  sculptured  in  relief,  of  the  towns 
of  Zara,  Candia,  Padua,  Rome,  Corfu,  and  Spalatro. 

§ XXII.  When  the  traveller  has  sufficiently  considered  the 
meaning  of  this  facade,  he  ought  to  visit  the  Church  of  St. 
Eustachio,  remarkable  for  the  dramatic  effect  of  the  group  of 
sculpture  on  its  fagade,  and  then  the  Churcli  of  the  Ospeda- 
letto  (see  Index,  under  head  Ospedaletto) ; noticing,  on  his 
way,  the  heads  on  the  foundations  of  the  Palazzo  Corner  della 
Regina,  and  the  Palazzo  Pesaro,  and  any  other  heads  carved 
on  the  modern  bridges,  closing  with  those  on  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs. 

He  will  then  have  obtained  a perfect  idea  of  the  style  and 
feeling  of  the  Grotesque  Renaissance.  I cannot  pollute  this 
volume  by  any  illustration  of  its  worst  forms,  but  the  heacf 
turned  to  the  front,  on  the  right-hand  in  the  opposite  Plate, 
will  give  the  general  reader  an  idea  of  its  most  graceful  and 
refined  developments.  The  figure  set  beside  it,  on  the  left,  is 
a piece  of  noble  grotesque,  from  fourteenth  century  Gothic ; 
and  it  rnu^t  be  our  present  task  to  ascertain  the  nature  of  the 


12G 


THIKD  PERIOD. 


cliffereiice  which  exists  between  the  two,  by  an  accurate  inquiry 
into  the  true  essence  of  the  grotesque  spirit  itself. 

§ XXIII.  First,  then,  it  seems  to  me  that  the  grotesque  is,  in 
almost  all  cases,  composed  of  two  elements,  one  ludicrous,  the 
other  fearful ; that,  as  one  or  other  of  these  elements  prevails, 
the  grotesque  falls  into  two  branches,  sportive  grotesque  and 
terrible  gi’otesque ; but  that  we  cannot  legitimately  consider  it 
under  these  two  aspects,  because  there  are  hardly  any  exam- 
ples which  do  not  in  some  degree  combine  both  elements ; 
there  are  few  grotesques  so  utterly  playful  as  to  be  overcast 
with  no  shade  of  fearfulness,  and  few  so  fearful  as  abso- 
lutely to  exclude  all  ideas  of  jest.  But  although  we  cannot 
separate  the  grotesque  itself  into  two  branches,  we  may  easily 
examine  separately  the  two  conditions  of  mind  which  it  seems 
to  combine ; and  consider  successively  what  are  the  kinds  of 
jest,  and  what  the  kinds  of  fearfulness,  which  may  be  legiti- 
mately expressed  in  the  various  walks  of  art,  and  how  their 
expressions  actually  occur  in  the  Gothic  and  Renaissance 
schools. 

First,  then,  what  are  the  conditions  of  playfulness  which 
we  may  fitly  express  in  noble  art,  or  which  (for  this  is  the 
same  thing)  are  consistent  with  nobleness  in  humanity  ? In 
other  words,  what  is  the  proper  function  of  play,  with  respect 
not  to  youth  merely^  but  to  all  mankind  ? 

§ XXIV.  It  is  a much  more  serious  question  than  may  be  at 
first  supposed ; for  a healthy  manner  of  play  is  necessary  in 
order  to  a healthy  manner  of  work : and  because  the  choice 
of  our  recreation  is,  in  most  cases,  left  to  ourselves,  while  the 
nature  of  our  work  is  generally  fixed  by  necessity  or  authority, 
it  may  be  well  doubted  whether  more  distressful  consequences 
may  not  have  resulted  from  mistaken  choice  in  play  than  from 
mistaken  direction  in  labor. 

§ XXV.  Observe,  however,  that  we  are  only  concerned, 
here,  with  that  kind  of  play  which  causes  laughter  or  implies 
recreation,  not  with  that  which  consists  in  the  excitement  of 
the  energies  whether  of  body  or  mind.  Muscular  exertion  is, 
indeed,  in  youth,  one  of  the  conditions  of  recreation ; but 


III.  GROTESQUE  REKAISSAKCE.  127 

neither  the  violent  bodily  labor  which  children  of  all  ages 
agree  to  call  play,”  nor  the  grave  excitement  of  the  mental 
faculties  in  games  of  skill  or  chance,  are  in  any^vise  connected 
with  the  state  of  feeling  we  have  here  to  investigate,  namely, 
that  sportiveness  which  man  possesses  in  common  with  many 
inferior  creatures,  but  to  which  his  higher  faculties  give  nobler 
expression  in  the  various  manifestations  of  wit,  humor,  and 
fancy. 

With  respect  to  the  manner  in  which  this  instinct  of  play- 
fulness is  indulged  or  repressed,  mankind  are  broadly  distin- 
guishable into  four  classes : the  men  who  play  wisely ; who 
play  necessarily ; who  play  inordinately  ; and  who  play  not  at 
all. 

§ XXVI.  First : Those  who  play  wisely.  It  is  evident  that 
the  idea  of  any  kind  of  play  can  only  be  associated  with  the 
idea  of  an  imperfect,  childish,  and  fatigable  nature.  As  far 
as  men  can  raise  that  nature,  so  that  it  shall  no  longer  be  in- 
terested by  trifles  or  exhausted  by  toils,  they  raise  it  above 
play ; he  whose  heart  is  at  once  flxed  upon  heaven,  and  open 
to  the  earth,  so  as  to  apprehend  the  importance  of  heavenly 
doctrines,  and  the  compass  of  human  sorrow,  will  have  little 
disposition  for  jest;  and  exactly  in  proportion  to  the  breadth 
and  depth  of  his  character  and  intellect,  will  be,  in  general, 
the  incapability  of  surprise,  or  exuberant  and  sudden  emotion, 
which  must  render  play  impossible.  It  is,  however,  evidently 
not  intended  that  many  men  should  even  reach,  far  less  pass 
their  lives  in,  that  solemn  state  of  thoughtfulness,  which 
brings  them  into  the  nearest  brotherhood  with  their  Divine 
Master ; and  the  highest  and  healthiest  state  which  is  compe-^ 
tent  to  ordinary  humanity  appears  to  be  that  which,  accept- 
ing the  necessity  of  recreation,  and  yielding  to  the  impulses  of 
natural  delight  springing  out  of  health  and  innocence,  does, 
indeed,  condescend  often  to  playfulness,  but  never  without 
such  deep  love  of  God,  of  truth,  and  of  humanity,  as  shall 
make  even  its  slightest  words  reverent,  its  idlest  fancies  pro- 
fitable, and  its  keenest  satire  indulgent.  Wordsworth  and 
Plato  furnish  us  with,  perhaps,  the  finest  and  highest  exam- 


128 


THIllI)  PERIOD. 


pies  of  this  playfulness : in  the  one  case,  immixed  with  satire, 
the  perfectly  simple  effusion  of  that  spirit 

‘‘  Which  gives  to  all  the  self-same  bent, 

Whose  life  is  wise,  and  innocent;” 

— in  Plato,  and,  by  the  by,  in  a very  wise  book  of  our  own 
times,  not  unworthy  of  being  named  in  such  companionship. 
Friends  in  Council,’’  mingled  with  an  exquisitely  tender  and 
loving  satire. 

§ XXVII.  Secondly : The  men  who  play  necessarily.  That 
highest  species  of  playfulness,  which  we  have  just  been  con- 
sidering, is  evidently  the  condition  of  a mind,  not  only  highly 
cultivated,  but  so  habitually  trained  to  intellectual  labor  that 
it  can  bring  a considerable  force  of  accurate  thought  into  its 
moments  even  of  recreation.  This  is  not  possible,  unless  so 
much  repose  of  mind  and  heart  are  enjoyed,  even  at  the 
periods  of  greatest  exertion,  that  the  rest  required  by  the  system 
is  diffused  over  the  whole  life.  To  the  majority  of  mankind, 
such  a state  is  evidently  unattainable.  They  must,  perforce, 
pass  a large  part  of  their  lives  in  emplojunents  both  irksome 
and  toilsome,  demanding  an  expenditure  of  energy  which  ex- 
hausts the  system,  and  yet  consuming  that  energy  upon  sub- 
jects incapable  of  interesting  the  nobler  faculties.  When  such 
employments  are  intermitted,  those  noble  instincts,  fancy, 
imagination,  and  curiosity,  are  all  hungry  for  the  food  which 
the  labor  of  the  day  has  denied  to  them,  while  yet  the  weari- 
ness of  the  body,  in  a great  degree,  forbids  theii*  application 
to  any  serious  subject.  They  therefore  exert  themselves  with- 
out any  determined  purpose,  and  under  no  vigorous  restraint, 
but  gather,  as  best  they  mayj  such  various  nourishment,  and 
put  themselves  to  such  fantastic  exercise,  as  may  soonest  in- 
demnify them  for  their  past  imprisonment,  and  prepare  them 
to  endure  their  recurrence.  This  sketching  of  the  mental 
limbs  as  their  fetters  fall  away, — this  leaping  and  dancing  of 
the  heart  and  intellect,  when  they  are  restored  to  the  fresh  air 
of  heaven,  yet  half  paralyzed  by  their  captivity,  and  unable  to 
turn  themselves  to  any  earnest  purpose, — I call  necessary  play, 


III.  GROTESQUE  REKAISSAXCE. 


120 


It  is  impossible  to  exaggerate  its  importance,  whether  in  polity, 
or  in  art. 

§ XXVIII.  Thirdly : The  men  who  play  inordinately.  The 
most  perfect  state  of  society  which,  consistently  with  due  un- 
derstanding of  man’s  nature,  it  may  be  permitted  us  to  con- 
ceive, would  be  one  in  which  the  whole  human  race  were 
divided,  more  or  less  distinctly,  into  workers  and  thinkers  ; that 
is  to  say,  into  the  two  classes,  who  only  play  wisely,  or  play 
necessarily.  But  the  number  and  the  toil  of  the  working  class 
are  enormously  increased,  probably  more  than  doubled,  by  the 
vices  of  the  men  who  neither  play  wisely  nor  necessarily,  but 
are  enabled  by  circumstances,  and  permitted  by  their  want  of 
principle,  to  make  amusement  tlie  object  of  their  existence. 
There  is  not  any  moment  of  the  lives  of  sucli  men  which  is 
not  injurious  to  others;  both  because  they  leave  the  work  un- 
done which  was  appointed  for  them,  and  because  they  neces- 
sarily think  wrongly,  whenever  it  becomes  compulsory  upon 
them  to  think  at  all.  The  greater  portion  of  the  misery  of 
this  world  arises  from  the  false  opinions  of  men  whose  idleness 
has  physically  incapacitated  them  from  forming  true  ones. 
Every  duty  wdiich  we  omit  obscures  some  truth  which  we 
should  have  known ; and  the  guilt  of  a life  spent  in  the  pur- 
suit of  pleasure  is  twofold,  partly  consisting  in  the  perversion 
of  action,  and  partly  in  the  dissemination  of  falsehood. 

§ XXIX.  There  is,  however,  a less  criminal,  though  hardly 
less  dangerous  condition  of  mind ; which,  though  not  failing 
in  its  more  urgent  duties,  fails  in  the  finer  conscientiousness 
which  regulates  the  degree,  and  directs  the  choice,  of  amuse- 
ment, at  those  times  when  amusement  is  allowable.  The  most 
frequent  error  in  this  respect  is  the  want  of  reverence  in  ap- 
proaching subjects  of  importance  or  sacredness,  and  of  caution 
in  the  expression  of  thoughts  which  may  encourage  like  irrev- 
erence in  others : and  these  faults  are  apt  to  gain  upon  the 
mind  until  it  becomes  habitually  more  sensible  to  what  is  lu- 
dicrous and  accidental,  than  to  what  is  grave  and  essential,  in 
any  subject  that  is  brought  before  it ; or  even,  at  last,  desires 
to  perceive  or  to  know  nothing  but  what  may  end  in  jest. 


130 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


Very  generally  minds  of  this  character  are  active  and  able; 
and  many  of  them  are  so  far  conscientious,  that  they  believe 
their  jesting  forwards  their  work.  But  it  is  difficult  to  calcu- 
late the  harm  they  do,  by  destroying  the  reverence  which  is 
our  best  guide  into  all  truth ; for  weakness  and  evil  are  easily 
visible,  but  greatness  and  goodness  are  often  latent ; and  we  do 
infinite  mischief  by  exposing  weakness  to  eyes  which  cannot 
comprehend  greatness.  This  error,  however,  is  more  connected 
with  abuses  of  the  satirical  than  of  the  playful  instinct ; and  I 
shall  have  more  to  say  of  it  presently. 

§ XXX.  Lastly : The  men  who  do  not  play  at  all : those 
who  are  so  dull  or  so  morose  as  to  be  incapable  of  inventing  or 
enjoying  jest,  and  in  whom  care,  guilt,  or  pride  represses  all 
healthy  exhilaration  of  the  fancy ; or  else  men  utterly  op- 
pressed with  labor,  and  driven  too  hard  by  the  necessities  of 
the  world  to  be  capable  of  any  species  of  happy  relaxation. 

§ XXXI.  We  have  now  to  consider  the  way  in  which  the  pres- 
ence or  absence  of  joyfulness,  in  these  several  classes,  is  ex- 
pressed in  art. 

1.  Wise  play.  The  first  and  noblest  class  hardly  ever 
speak  through  art,  except  seriously  ; they  feel  its  nobleness 
too  profoundly,  and  value  the  time  necessary  for  its  produc- 
tion too  highly,  to  employ  it  in  the  rendering  of  trivial 
thoughts.  The  playful  fancy  of  a moment  may  innocently  be 
expressed  by  the  passing  word  ; but  he  can  hardly  have 
learned  the  preciousness  of  life,  who  passes  days  in  the  elabo- 
ration of  a jest.  And,  as  to  what  regards  the  delineation  of 
human  character,  the  nature  of  all  noble  art  is  to  epitomize  and 
embrace  so  much  at  once,  that  its  subject  can  never  be  alto- 
gether ludicrous  ; it  must  possess  all  the  solemnities  of  the 
whole,  not  the  brightness  of  the  partial,  truth.  Tor  all  truth 
tliat  makes  us  smile  is  partial.  The  novelist  amuses  us  by  his 
relation  of  a particular  incident;  but  the  painter  cannot  set 
any  one  of  his  characters  before  us  without  giving  some  glimpse 
of  its  whole  career.  That  of  which  the  historian  informs  ns 
in  successive  pages,  it  is  the  task  of  the  painter  to  inform  us  of 
at  once,  writing  upon  the  countenance  not  merely  the  expression 


m.  GROTESQUE  RE^q'AISSAKCE. 


131 


of  tlie  moment,  but  the  history  of  the  life:  and  the  history  of 
a life  can  never  be  a jest. 

Whatever  part,  therefore,  of  the  sportive  energy  of  these 
men  of  the  highest  class  would  be  expressed  in  verbal  wit  or 
humor  finds  small  utterance  through  their  art,  and  will  assur- 
edly be  confined,  if  it  occur  there  at  all,  to  scattered  and 
trivial  incidents.  But  so  far  as  their  minds  can  recreate 
themselves  by  the  imagination  of  strange,  yet  not  laughable, 
forms,  which,  either  in  costume,  in  landscape,  or  in  any  other 
accessaries,  may  be  combined  with  those  necessary  for  their 
more  earnest  purposes,  we  find  them  delighting  in  such  inven- 
tions ; and  a species  of  grotesqueness  thence  arising  in  all  their 
work,  w'hich  is  indeed  one  of  its  most  valuable  characteristics, 
but  which  is  so  intimately  connected  with  the  sublime  or  ter- 
rible form  of  the  grotesque,  that  it  will  be  better  to  notice  it 
under  that  head. 

§ XXXII.  2.  Necessary  play.  I have  dwelt  much  in  a 
former  portion  of  this  work,  on  the  justice  and  desirableness 
of  employing  the  minds  of  inferior  workmen,  and  of  the  lower 
orders  in  general,  in  the  production  of  objects  of  art  of  one 
kind  or  another.  So  far  as  men  of  this  class  are  compelled  to 
hard  manual  labor  for  their  daily  bread,  so  far  forth  their 
artistical  efforts  must  be  rough  and  ignorant,  and  their  artisti- 
cal  perceptions  comparatively  dull.  Now  it  is  not  possible, 
with  blunt  perceptions  and  rude  hands,  to  produce  vmrks 
which  shall  be  pleasing  by  their  beauty ; but  it  is  peiffectly 
possible  to  produce  such  as  shall  be  interesting  by  their  char- 
acter or  amusing  by  their  satire.  For  one  hard-working  man 
who  possesses  the  finer  instincts  which  decide  on  perfection  of 
lines  and  harmonies  of  color,  twenty  possess  dry  humor  or 
quaint  fancy  ; not  because  these  faculties  were  originally  given 
to  the  human  race,  or  to  any  section  of  it,  in  greater  degree 
than  the  sense  of  beauty,  but  because  these  are  exercised  in 
our  daily  intercourse  with  each  other,  and  developed  by  the 
interest  wliich  we  take  in  the  affairs  of  life,  while  the*  others 
are  not.  And  because,  therefore,  a certain  degree  of  success  will 
probably  attend  the  effort  to  express  this  humor  or  fancy,  while 


133 


THTBI)  PEKIOT). 


comparative  failure  will  assuredly  result  from,  an  ignorant 
struggle  to  reach  the  forms  of  solemn  beauty,  the  working- 
man, who  turns  liis  attention  partially  to  art,  will  probably, 
and  wisely,  choose  to  do  that  which  he  can  do  best,  and  indulge 
the  pride  of  an  effective  satire  rather  than  subject  himself  to 
assured  mortification  in  the  pursuit  of  beauty ; and  this  the 
more,  because  we  have  seen  that  his  application  to  art  is  to  be 
playful  and  recreative,  and  it  is  not  in  recreation  that  the  con- 
ditions of  perfection  can  be  fulfilled. 

§ XXXIII.  Now  all  the  forms  of  art  which  result  from  the 
comparatively  recreative  exertion  of  minds  more  or  less  blunted 
or  encumbered  by  other  cares  and  toils,  the  art  which  we  may 
call  generally  art  of  the  wayside,  as  opposed  to  that  which  is 
the  business  of  men’s  lives,  is,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word, 
Grotesque.  And  it  is  noble  or  inferior,  first,  according  to  the 
tone  of  the  minds  which  have  produced  it,  and  in  proportion 
to  their  knowledge,  wit,  love  of  truth,  and  kindness  ; secondly, 
according  to  the  degree  of  strength  they  have  been  able  to 
give  forth ; but  yet,  however  much  we  may  find  in  it  needing 
to  be  forgiven,  always  delightful  so  long  as  it  is  the  work  of 
good  and  ordinarily  intelligent  men.  And  its  delightfulness 
ought  mainly  to  consist  in  those  very  imperfections  which 
mark  it  for  work  done  in  times  of  rest.  It  is  not  its  own 
merit  so  much  as  the  enjoyment  of  him  who  produced  it, 
which  is  to  be  the  source  of  the  spectator’s  pleasure ; it  is  to 
the  strength  of  his  sympathy,  not  to  the  accuracy  of  his  criti- 
cism, that  it  makes  appeal ; and  no  man  can  indeed  be  a lovei- 
of  what  is  best  in  the  higher  walks  of  art,  who  has  not  feeling 
and  charity  enough  to  rejoice  with  the  rude  sportiveness  of 
hearts  that  have  escaped  out  of  prison,  and  to  be  thankful  for 
tlie  fiowers  which  men  have  laid  their  burdens  down  to  sow  by 
the  wayside. 

§ XXXIV.  And  consider  what  a vast  amount  of  human  work 
this  right  understanding  of  its  meaning  will  make  fruitful  and 
admirable  to  us,  which  otherwise  we  could  only  have  passed 
by  with  contempt.  There  is  very  little  architecture  in  the 
world  which  is,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  words,  good  and  noble. 


III.  GKOTESQUE  REN’A  ISSAKCE. 


133 


A few  pieces  of  Italian  Grotliie  and  Romanesque,  a few  scat- 
tered fragments  of  Gothic  cathedrals^  and  perhaps  two  or 
three  of  Greek  temples,  are  all  that  we  possess  approaching 
to  an  ideal  of  perfection.  All  the  rest — Egyptian,  Norman, 
Arabian,  and  most  Gothic,  and,  which  is  very  noticeable,  for 
the  most  part  all  the  strongest  and  mightiest — depend  for  their 
powei’  on  some  developement  of  the  grotesque  spirit ; but 
much  more  the  inferior  domestic  architecture  of  the  middle 
ages,  and  what  similar  conditions  remain  to  this  day  in  coun- 
tries from  which  the  life  of  art  has  not  yet  been  banished  by 
its  laws.  The  fantastic  gables,  built  up  in  scroll-work  and 
steps,  of  the  Flemish  street ; the  pinnacled  roofs  set  with 
their  small  humorist  double  windows,  as  if  with  so  many  ears 
and  eyes,  of  Northern  France ; the  blackened  timbers,  crossed 
and  carved  into  every  conceivable  waywardness  of  imagina- 
tion, of  Normandy  and  old  England;  the  rude  hewing  of  the 
pine  timbers  of  the  Swiss  cottage ; the  projecting  turrets  and 
bracketed  oriels  of  the  German  street ; these,  and  a thousand 
other  forms,  not  in  themselves  reaching  any  high  degree  of 
excellence,  are  yet  admirable,  and  most  precious,  as  the  fruits 
of  a rejoicing  energy  in  uncultivated  minds.  It  is  easier  to 
take  away  the  enei’gy,  than  to  add  the  cultivation ; and  the 
only  effect  of  the  better  knowledge  which  civilized  nations 
now  possess,  has  been,  as  we  have  seen  in  a former  chapter, 
to  forbid  their  being  happy,  without  enabling  them  to  be 
great. 

§ XXXV.  It  is  very  necessary,  however,  with  respect  to  this 
provincial  or  rustic  architecture,  tliat  we  should  carefully  dis- 
tinguish its  truly  grotesque  from  its  picturesque  elements.  In 
tlie  Seven  Lamps”  I defined  the  picturesque  to  be  ^^parasiti- 
cal sublimity,”  or  sublimity  belonging  to  the  external  or  acci- 
dental characters  of  a thing,  not  to  the  thing  itself.  For 
instance,  when  a highland  cottage  roof  is  covei’ed  with  frag- 
ments of  shale  instead  of  slates,  it  becomes  picturesque,  be- 
cause the  irregularity  and  rude  fractures  of  the  rocks,  and 
their  grey  and  gloomy  color,  give  to  it  something  of  the 
^avageness,  and  much  of  the  general  aspect,  of  the  slope  of  a 


134 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


mountain  side.  But  as  a mere  cottage  roof,  it  cannot  be  su1> 
lime,  and  wliatever  sublimity  it  derives  from  the  wildness  or 
sternness  which  the  mountains  have  given  it  in  its  covering, 
is,  so  far  forth,  parasitical.  The  mountain  itself  would  have 
been  grand,  which  is  much  more  than  picturesque ; but  the 
cottage  cannot  be  grand  as  such,  and  the  parasitical  grandeur 
which  it  may  possess  by  accidental  qualities,  is  the  character 
for  which  men  have  long  agreed  to  use  the  inaccurate  word 
Picturesque.” 

§ XXXVI.  On  the  other  hand,  beauty  cannot  be  parasitical. 
There  is  nothing  so  small  or  so  contemptible,  but  it  may  be 
beautiful  in  its  own  right.  The  cottage  may  be  beautiful,  and 
the  smallest  moss  that  grows  on  its  roof,  and  the  minutest 
fibre  of  that  moss  which  the  microscope  can  raise  into  visible 
form,  and  all  of  them  in  their  own  right,  not  less  than  the 
mountains  and  the  sky ; so  that  w^e  use  no  peculiar  term  to 
express  their  beauty,  however  diminutive,  but  only  when  the 
sublime  element  enters,  without  sufficient  worthiness  in  the 
nature  of  the  thing  to  which  it  is  attached. 

§ XXXVII.  Now  this  picturesque  element,  which  is  always 
given,  if  by  nothing  else,  merely  by  ruggedness,  adds  usually 
very  largely  to  the  pleasurableness  of  grotesque  work,  especi- 
ally to  that  of  its  inferior  kinds ; but  it  is  not  for  this  reason 
to  be  confounded  with  the  grotesqueness  itself.  The  knots 
and  rents  of  the  timbers,  the  irregular  lying  of  the  shingles  on 
the  roofs,  the  vigorous  light  and  shadow,  the  fractures  and 
weather-stains  of  the  old  stones,  which  were  so  deeply  loved 
and  so  admirably  rendered  by  our  lost  Prout,  are  the  pictur- 
esque elements  of  the  architecture : the  grotesque  ones  are 
those  which  are  not  produced  by  the  working  of  nature  and 
of  time,  l)ut  exclusively  by  the  fancy  of  man ; and,  as  also  for 
the  most  part  by  his  indolent  and  uncultivated  fancy,  they  are 
always,  in  some  degree,  wanting  in  grandeur,  unless  the  pic- 
turesque element  be  united  with  them. 

§ XXXVIII.  3.  Inordinate  play.  The  reader  will  have  some 
difficulty,  I fear,  in  keeping  clearly  in  his  mind,  the  various 
divisions  of  our  subject ; but,  when  he  has  once  read  the 


III.  GROTESQUE  RENAISSANCE, 


135 


chapter  through,  he  will  see  their  places  and  coherence.  We 
have  next  to  consider  the  expression  throiighout  of  the  minds 
of  men  who  indulge  themselves  in  unnecessary  play.  It  is 
evident  that  a large  number  of  these  men  will  be  more  refined 
and  more  highly  educated  than  those  who  only  play  neces- 
sarily; the  power  of  pleasure-seeking  implies,  in  general,  for 
tunate  circumstances  of  life.  It  is  evident  also  that  their  play 
will  not  be  so  hearty,  so  simple,  or  so  joyful  ; and  this 
deficiency  of  brightness  will  affect  it  in  proportion  to  its 
unnecessary  and  unlawful  continuance,  until  at  last  it  becomes 
a restless  and  dissatisfied  indulgence  in  excitement,  or  a pain- 
ful delving  after  exhausted  springs  of  pleasure. 

The  art  through  which  this  temper  is  expressed  will,  in  all 
probability,  be  refined  and  sensual, — therefore,  also,  assuredly 
feeble  ; and  because,  in  the  failure  of  the  joyful  energy  of  the 
mind,  there  will  fail,  also,  its  perceptions  and  its  sympathies, 
it  will  be  entirely  deficient  in  expression  of  character,  and 
acuteness  of  thought,  but  will  be  peculiarly  restless,  manifest- 
ing its  desire  for  excitement  in  idle  changes  of  subject  and 
purpose.  Incapable  of  true  imagination,  it  will  seek  to  sup- 
ply its  place  by  exaggerations,  incoherencies,  and  monstrosi- 
ties ; and  the  form  of  the  grotesque  to  which  it  gives  rise 
will  be  an  incongruous  chain  of  hackneyed  graces,  idly  thrown 
together, — prettinesses  or  sublimities,  not  of  its  own  inven- 
tion, associated  in  forms  which  will  be  absurd  without  being 
fantastic,  and  monstrous  without  being  terrible.  And  because, 
in  the  continual  pursuit  of  pleasure,  men  lose  both  cheerful- 
ness and  charity,  there  will  be  small  hilarity,  but  much  malice, 
hi  this  grotesque;  yet  a weak  malice,  incapable  of  express- 
ing its  own  bitterness,  not  having  grasp  enough  of  truth  to 
become  forcible,  and  exhausting  itself  in  impotent  or  disgust- 
ing caricature. 

§ xxxix.  Of  course,  there  are  infinite  ranks  and  kinds  of 
this  grotesque,  according  to  the  natural  power  of  the  minds 
which  originate  it,  and  to  the  degree  in  which  they  have  lost 
themselves.  Its  highest  condition  is  that  which  first  developed 
itself  among  the  enervated  Romans,  and  which  was  brought 


13G 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


to  the  Ihghest  perfection  of  which  it  was  capable/  by  Raphael, 
in  the  arabesques  of  the  Vatican.  It  may  be  generally  de- 
scribed as  an  elaborate  and  luscious  form  of  nonsense.  Its 
lower  conditions  are  found  in  the  common  upholstery  and 
decorations  which,  over  the  wdiole  of  civilized  Europe,  have 
sprung  from  this  poisonous  root ; an  artistical  pottage,  com- 
posed of  nymphs,  cupids,  and  satyrs,  with  shreddings  of  heads 
and  paws  of  meek  wild  beasts,  and  nondescript  vegetables. 
And  the  lowest  of  all  are  those  which  have  not  even  graceful 
models  to  recommend  them,  but  arise  out  of  the  corruption 
of  the  higher  schools,  mingled  with  clownish  or  bestial  satire, 
as  is  the  case  in  the  latter  Renaissance  of  Venice,  which  we 
were  above  examining.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  believe  the 
depth  to  which  the  human  mind  can  be  debased  in  following 
this  species  of  grotesque.  In  a recent  Italian  gardeiq  the 
favorite  ornaments  frequently  consist  of  stucco  images,  repre- 
senting, in  dwarfish  caricature,  the  most  disgusting  types  of 
manhood  and  womanhood  which  can  be  found  amidst  the 
dissipation  of  the  modern  drawingroom ; yet  without  either 
veracity  or  humor,  and  dependent,  for  whatever  interest  they 
possess,  upon  simple  grossness  of  expression  and  absurdity  of 
costume.  Grossness,  of  one  kind  or  another,  is,  indeed,  an 
unfailing  characteristic  of  the  style ; either  latent,  as  in  the 
refined  sensuality  of  the  more  graceful  arabesques,  or,  in  the 
worst  examples,  manifested  in  every  species  of  obscene  con- 
ception and  abominable  detail.  In  the  head,  described  in  the 
opening  of  this  chaptei*,  at  Santa  Maria  Formosa,  the  teeth  are 
represented  as  decayed. 

§ XL.  4.  The  minds  of  the  fourth  class  of  men  who  do  not 
play  at  all,  are  little  likely  to  find  expression  in  any  trivial 
form  of  art,  except  in  bitterness  of  mockery  ; and  this  charac- 
ter at  once  stamps  the  work  in  which  it  appears,  as  belonging 
to  the  class  of  terrible^  rather  than  of  playful,  grotesque.  AVe 
liave,  therefore,  now  to  examine  the  state'  of  mind  which  gave 
1‘ise  to  this  second  and  more  interesting  branch  of* imaginative 
work. 

§ xLi.  Two  great  and  principal  passions  are  evidently  ap^ 


III.  GROTESQUE  REi^AISSA^^-CE. 


137 


pointed  by  the  Deity  to  rule  the  life  of  man;  namely,  the  love 
of  God,  and  the  fear  of  sin,  and  of  its  companion — Death. 
How  many  motives  we  have  for  Love,  how  much  there  is  in 
the  universe  to  kindle  our  admiration  and  to  claim  our  OTati 

c5 

tude,  there  are,  happily,  multitudes  among  us  who  both  feel 
and  teach.  But  it  has  not,  I think,  been  sufficiently  considered 
how  evident,  throughout  the  system  of  creation,  is  the  purpose 
of  God  that  we  should  often  be  affected  by  Fear ; not  the  sud^ 
den,  selfish,  and  contemptible  fear  of  immediate  danger,  but 
the  fear  which  arises  out  of  the  contemplation  of  great  powers 
in  destructive  operation,  and  generally  from  the  perception  of 
the  presence  of  death.  Nothing  appears  to  me  more  remark- 
able than  the  array  of  scenic  magnificence  by  wffiich  the  im- 
agination is  appalled,  in  myriads  of  instances,  when  the  actual 
danger  is  comparatively  small;  so  that  the  utmost  possible 
impression  of  awe  shall  be  produced  upon  the  minds  of  all, 
though  direct  suffering  is  inflicted  upon  few.  Consider,  for 
instance,  the  moral  effect  of  a single,  thunder-storm.  Perhaps 
two  or  three  persons  may  be  struck  dead  within  the  space  of  a 
hundred  square  miles ; and  their  deaths,  unaccompanied  by 
the  scenery  of  the  storm,  would  produce  little  more  than  a 
momentary  sadness  in  the  busy  hearts  of  living  men.  But 
the  preparation  for  the  Judgment  by  all  that  mighty  gather- 
ing of  clouds ; by  the  questioning  of  the  forest  leaves,  in  their 
terrified  stillness,  which  way  the  winds  shall  go  forth ; by  the 
murmuring  to  each  other,  deep  in  the  distance,  of  the  destroy- 
ing angels  before  they  draw  forth  their  swords  of  fire ; by  the 
march  of  the  funeral  darkness  in  the  midst  of  the  noon-day, 
and  the  rattling  of  the  dome  of  heaven  beneath  the  chariot- 
wheels  of  death  ; — on  how  many  minds  do  not  these  produce 
an  impression  almost  as  great  as  the  actual  witnessing  of  the 
fatal  issue  ! and  how  strangely  are  the  expressions  of  the 
threatening  elements  fitted  to  the  apprehension  of  the  human 
soul ! The  lurid  color,  the  long,  irregular,  convulsive  sound.^ 
the  ghastly  shapes  of  flaming  and  heaving  cloud,  are  all  as 
true  and  faithful  in  their  appeal  to  our  instinct  of  danger,  as 
the  moaning  or  wailing  of  the  human  voice  itself  is  to  our 


138 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


instinct  of  pity.  It  is  not  a reasonable  calculating  terror  which 
they  awake  in  us ; it  is  no  matter  tliat  we  count  distance  by 
seconds,  and  measure  probability  by  averages.  That  shadow  of 
the  thunder-cloud  will  still  do  its  work  upon  our  hearts,,  and 
we  shall  \vatch  its  passing  away  as  if  we  stood  upon  the 
threshing-floor  of  Araunah. 

§ xLii.  And  this  is  equally  the  case  with  respect  to  all  the 
other  destructive  phenomena  of  the  universe.  From  the 
mightiest  of  them  to  the  gentlest,  from  the  earthquake  to  the 
summer  shower,  it  will  be  found  that  they  are  attended  by 
certain  aspects  of  threatening,  which  strike  terror  into  the 
hearts  of  multitudes  more  numerous  a thousandfold  than  those 
who  actually  suffer  from  the  ministries  of  judgment ; and 
that,  besides  the  fearfulness  of  these  immediately  dangei’ous 
phenomena,  there  is  an  occult  and  subtle  horror  belonging  to 
many  aspects  of  the  creation  around  us,  calculated  often  to  fill 
us  with  serious  thought,  even  in  our  times  of  quietness  and 
peace.  I understand  not  the  most  dangerous,  because  most 
attractive  form  of  modern  infidelity,  which,  pretending  to 
exalt  the  beneficence  of  the  Deity,  degrades  it  into  a reckless 
infinitude  of  mercy,  and  blind  obliteration  of  the  work  of  sin  ; 
and  which  does  this  chiefly  by  dwelling  on  the  manifold  ap- 
pearances of  God’s  kindness  on  the  face  of  creation.  Such 
kindness  is  indeed  everywhere  and  always  visible;  but  not 
alone.  Wrath  and  threatening  are  invariably  mingled  wdth 
the  love ; and  in  the  utmost  solitudes  of  nature,  the  existence 
of  Hell  seems  to  me  as  legibly  declared  by  a thousand  spiritual 
utterances,  as  that  of  Heaven.  It  is  well  for  us  to  dwell  with 
thankfulness  on  the  unfolding  of  the  fiower,  and  the  falling  of 
the  dew,  and  the  sleep  of  the  green  fields  in  the  sunshine  but 
the  blasted  trunk,  the  barren  rock,  the  moaning  of  the  bleak 
winds,  the  roar  of  the  black,  perilous,  merciless  whirlpools  of 
the  mountain  streams,  the  solemn  solitudes  of  moors  and  seas, 
the  continual  fading  of  all  beauty  into  darkness,  and  of  all 
strength  into  dust,  have  these  no  language  for  us?  We  may 
seek  to  escape  their  teaching  by  reasonings  touching  the  good 
which  is  wrought  out  of  all  evil ; but  it  is  vain  sophistry. 


III.  GKOTESC^UE  REKAISSAKCE. 


139 


The  good  succeeds  to  the  evil  as  day  succeeds  the  night,  but 
so  also  the  evil  to  the  good.  Geriziin  and  Ebal,  birth  and 
death,  light  and  darkness,  heaven  and  hell,  divide  the  existence 
of  man,  and  his  Futurity.'^' 

§ xLiii.  And  because  the  thoughts  of  the  choice  we  have 
to  make  between  these  two,  ought  to  rule  us  continuallvj  not 
so  much  in  onr  own  actions  (for  these  should,  for  the  most 
part,  be  govei-ned  by  settled  habit  and  principle)  as  in  our 
manner  of  regarding  the  lives  of  other  men,  and  our  own 
responsibilities  with  respect  to  them ; therefore,  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  healthiest  state  into  which  the  human  mind  can 
be  brought  is  that  which  is  capable  of  the  greatest  love,  and 
the  greatest  awe : and  this  we  are  taught  even  in  our  times 
of  rest ; for  when  our  minds  are  rightly  in  tone,  the  merely 
pleasurable  excitement  which  they  seek  with  most  avidity  is 
that  which  rises  out  of  the  contemplation  of  beauty  or  of  ter- 
ribleness. We  thirst  for  both,  and,  according  to  the  height 
and  tone  of  our  feeling,  desire  to  see  them  in  noble  or  Inferior 
forms.  Thus  there  is  a Divine  beauty,  and  a terribleness  or 
sublimity  coequal  with  it  in  rank,  which  are  the  subjects  of 
the  highest  art ; and  there  is  an  inferior  or  ornamental  beauty, 
and  an  inferior  terribleness  coequal  with  it  in  rank,  which  are 
the  subjects  of  grotesque  art.  And  the  state  of  mind  in  which 
the  terrible  form  of  the  grotesque  is  developed,  is  that  which 
in  some  irregular  manner,  dwells  upon  certain  conditions  of 
terribleness,  into  the  complete  depth  of  which  it  does  not 
enter  for  the  time. 

§ XLiv.  Now  the  things  which  are  the  proper  subjects  of 
human  fear  are  twofold ; those  which  have  the  power  of 
Death,  and  those  which  have  the  nature  of  Sin.  Of  which 
there  are  many  ranks,  greater  or  less  in  power  and  vice,  from 
the  evil  angels  themselves  down  to  the  serpent  which  is  their 

* The  Love  of  God  is,  however,  always  shown  by  the  predominance,  oi 
greater  sum,  of  good,  in  the  end;  but  never  by  the  annihilation  of  evil. 
The  modern  doubts  of  eternal  punishment  are  not  so  much  the  consequence 
of  benevolence  as  of  feeble  powers  of  reasoning.  Every  one  admits  that 
God  brings  finite  good  out  of  finite  ^vil.  Why  not,  therefore,  infinite  good 
out  of  infinite  evil? 


140  ’ 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


type,  and  wliicli  tlioiigli  of  a low  and  contemptible  class, 
appears  to  unite  tlie  deathful  and  sinful  natures  in  the  most 
clearly  visible  and  intelligible  form  ; for  there  is  nothing  else 
which  we  know,  of  so  small  strength  and  occupying  so  unim- 
portant a place  in  the  economy  of  creation,  which  yet  is  so 
mortal  and  so  malignant.  It  is,  then,  on  these  two  classes  of 
objects  that  the  mind  fixes  for  its  excitement,  in  that  mood 
which  gives  rise  to  the  terrible  grotesque  ; and  its  subject  will 
be  found  always  to  unite  some  expression  of  vice  and  danger, 
but  regarded  in  a peculiar  temper ; sometimes  (a)  of  predeter- 
mined or  involuntary  apathy,  sometimes  (b)  of  mockery,  some- 
times (c)  of  diseased  and  ungoverned  imaginativeness. 

§ XLV.  For  observe,  the  difficulty  which,  as  I above  stated, 
exists  in  distinguishing  the  playful  from  the  terrible  grotesque 
arises  out  of  this  cause ; that  the  mind,  under  certain  phases 
of  excitement,  plays  with  terror^  and  summons  images  which, 
if  it  were  in  another  temper,  would  be  awful,  but  of  which, 
either  in  weariness  or  in  irony,  it  refrains  for  the  time  to 
acknowledge  the  true  terribleness.  And  the  mode  in  which 
this  refusal  takes  place  distinguishes  the  noble  from  the  igno- 
ble grotesque.  For  the  master  of  the  noble  grotesque  knows 
the  depth  of  all  at  which  he  seems  to  mock,  and  would  feel 
it  at  another  time,  or  feels  it  in  a certain  undercurrent  of 
thought  even  while  he  jests  with  it ; but  the  workman  of  the 
ignoble  grotesque  can  feel  and  understand  nothing,  and  mocks 
at  all  things  with  the  laughter  of  the  idiot  and  the  cretin. 

To  work  out  this  distinction  completely  is  the  chief  diffi- 
culty in  our  present  inquiry ; and,  in  order  to  do  so,  let  us 
consider  the  above-named  three  conditions  of  mind  in  succes- 
sion, with  relation  to  objects  of  terror. 

§ XL VI.  (a).  Involuntary  or  predetermined  apathy.  We 
saw  above  that  the  grotesque  was  produced,  chiefly  in  subor- 
dinate or  ornamental  art,  by  rude,  and  in  some  degree  unedu- 
cated men,  and  in  their  times  of  rest.  At  such  times,  and  in 
such  subordinate  work,  it  is  impossible  that  they  should  repre- 
sent any  solemn  or  terrible  subject  with  a full  and  serious 
entrance  into  its  feeling.  It  is  not  in  the  languor  of  a leisure 


III.  GROTESQUE  REis^AISSAKCE. 


141 


hour  that  a man  will  set  his  whole  soul  to  conceive  the  means 
of  representing  some  important  truth,  nor  to  the  projecting 
angle  of  a timber  bracket  that  he  would  trust  its  representa- 
tion, if  conceived.  And  yet,  in  this  languor,  and  in  this 
trivial  work,  he  must  find^  some  expression  of  the  serious  part 
of  his  soul,  of  what  there  is  within  him  capable  of  awe,  as  well 
as  of  love.  The  more  noble  the  man  is,  the  more  impossible 
it  will  be  for  him  to  confine  his  thoughts  to  mere  loveliness, 
and  that  of  a low  order.  Were  his  powers  and  his  time  un- 
limited, so  that,  like  Fra  Angelico,  he  could  paint  the  Seraphim, 
in  that  order  of  beauty  he  could  find  contentment,  bringing 
down  heaven  to  earth.  But  by  the  conditions  of  his  being,  by 
his  hard-worked  life,  by  his  feeble  powers  of  execution,  by  the 
meanness  of  his  employment  and  the  languor  of  his  heart,  he 
is  bound  down  to  earth.  It  is  the  world’s  work  that  he  is 
doing,  and  world’s  work  is  not  to  be  done  without  fear.  And 
whatever  there  is  of  deej3  and  eternal  consciousness  wfithin 
him,  thrilling  his  mind  with  the  sense  of  the  presence  of  sin 
and  death  around  him,  must  be  expressed  in  that  slight  work, 
and  feeble  w^ay,  come  of  it  what  will.  He  cannot  forget  it, 
among  all  that  he  sees  of  beautiful  in  nature ; he  may  not 
bury  himself  among  the  leaves  of  the  violet  on  the  rocks,  and 
of  the  lily  in  the  glen,  and  twine  out  of  them  garlands  of  per- 
petual gladness.  He  sees  more  in  the  earth  than  these, — mis- 
ery and  wrath,  and  discordance,  and  danger,  and  all  the  work 
of  the  diagon  and  his  angels ; this  he  sees  with  too  deep  feel- 
ing ever  to  forget.  And  though  when  he  returns  to  his  idle 
work, — it  may  be  to  gild  the  letters  upon  the  page,  or  to  carve 
the  timbers  of  the  chamber,  or  the  stones  of  the  pinnacle, — he 
cannot  give  his  strength  of  thought  any  more  to  the  woe  or  to 
the  danger,  there  is  a shadow  of  them  still  present  with  him  : 
and  as  the  bright  colors  mingle  beneath  his  touch,  and  the  fair 
leaves  and  fiowers  grow  at  his  bidding,  strange  horrors  and 
phantasms  rise  by  their  side  ; grisly  beasts  and  venomous  ser- 
pents, and  spectral  fiends  and  nameless  inconsistencies  of  ghastly 
life,  rising  out  of  things  most  beautiful,  and  fading  back  into 
them  again,  as  the  harm  and  the  horror  of  life  do  out  of  its 


142 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


happiness.  He  has  seen  these  things ; he  wars  with  them 
daily  ; he  cannot  but  give  them  their  part  in  his  work,  though 
in  a state  of  comparative  apathy  to  them  at  the  time.  He  is 
but  carving  and  gilding,  and  must  not  turn  aside  to  weep ; but 
lie  knows  that  hell  is  burning  on,  for  all  that,  and  the  smoke 
of  it  withers  his  oak-leaves. 

§ XLvii.  Now,  the  feelings  which  give  rise  to  the  false  or 
ignoble  grotesque,  are  exactly  the  reverse  of  these.  In  the 
true  grotesque,  a man  of  naturally  strong  feeling  is  accidentally 
or  resolutely  apathetic ; in  the  false  grotesque,  a man  naturally 
apathetic  is  forcing  himself  into  temporary  excitement.  The 
horror  which  is  expressed  by  the  one,  comes  upon  him  whether 
he  will  or  not ; that  which  is  expressed  by  the  other,  is  sought 
out  by  him,  and  elaborated  by  his  art.  And  therefore,  also, 
because  the  fear  of  the  one  is  true,  and  of  true  things,  however 
fantastic  its  expression  may  be,  there  will  be  reality  in  it,  and 
force.  It  is  not  a manufactured  terribleness,  whose  author, 
when  he  had  finished  it,  knew  not  if  it  would  terrify  any  one 
else  or  not : but  it  is  a terribleness  taken  from  the  life ; a 
spectre  which  the  workman  indeed  saw,  and  which,  as  it  ap- 
palled him,  will  appal  us  also.  But  the  other  workman  never 
felt  any  Divine  fear ; he  never  shuddered  when  he  heard  the 
cry  from  the  burning  towers  of  the  earth, 

“ Venga  Medusa;  si  lo  farem  di  smalto.” 

He  is  stone  already,  and  needs  no  gentle  hand  laid  upon  his 
eyes  to  save  him. 

§ XLviii.  I do  not  mean  what  I say  in  this  place  to  apply  to 
the  creations  of  the  imagination.  It  is  not  as  the  creating  but 
as  the  seeing  man,  that  we  are  here  contemplating  the  master 
of  the  true  grotesque.  It  is  because  the  dreadfulness  of  the 
universe  around  him  weighs  upon  his  heart,  that  his  work  is 
wild ; and  therefore  through  tlie  whole  of  it  we  shall  find  the 
evidence  of  deep  insight  into  nature.  His  beasts  and  birds, 
however  monstrous,  will  have  profound  relations  with  the  true. 
He  may  be  an  ignorant  man,  and  little  acquainted  with  the 
laws  of  nature ; tie  is  certainly  a busy  man,  and  has  not  much 


Til.  GROTESQI  E UEXATSSAXCE. 


143 


time  to  watcli  na,ture ; but  lie  never  saw  a serpent  cross  liis 
path,  nor  a bird  flit  across  the  sky,  nor  a lizard  bask  upon  a 
stone,  without  learning  so  much  of  the  sublimity  and  inner 
nature  of  each  as  will  not  suffer  him  thenceforth  to  conceive 
them  coldly.  He  may  not  be  able  to  carve  plumes  or  scales 
well ; but  his  creatures  will  bite  and  fly,  for  all  that.  The  ig- 
noble workman  is  the  very  reverse  of  this.  He  never  felt, 
never  looked  at  nature ; and  if  he  endeavor  to  imitate  the 
work  of  the  other,  all  his  touches  will  be  made  at  random,  and 
all  his  extravagances  will  be  ineffective  ; he  may  knit  brows, 
and  twist  lips,  and  lengthen  beaks,  and  sharpen  teeth,  but  it 
will  be  all  in  vain.  He  may  make  his  creatures  disgusting,  but 
never  fearful. 

§ xLix.  There  is,  however,  often  another  cause  of  difference 
than  this.  The  true  grotesque  being  the  expression  of  the  re- 
pose or  play  of  a serious  mind,  there  is  a false  grotesque  oj)- 
posed  to  it,  which  is  the  result  of  the  full  exertion  of  a frivo- 
lous one.  There  is  much  grotesque  which  is  wrought  out  with 
exquisite  care  and  pains,  and  as  much  labor  given  to  it  as  if  it 
were  of  the  noblest  subject ; so  that  the  workman  is  evidently 
no  longer  apathetic,  and  has  no  excuse  for  unconnectedness  of 
thought,  or  sudden  unreasonable  fear.  If  he  awakens  horror 
now,  it  ought  to  be  in  some  truly  sublime  form.  His  strength 
is  in  his  work ; and  he  must  not  give  way  to  sudden  humor, 
and  flts  of  erratic  fancy.  If  he  does  so,  it  must  be  because  his 
mind  is  naturally  frivolous,  or  is  for  the  time  degraded  into  the 
deliberate  pursuit  of  frivolity.  And  herein  lies  the  real  dis- 
tinction between  the  base  grotesque  of  Raphael  and  the  Re- 
naissance, above  alluded  to,  and  the  true  Gothic  grotesque. 
Those  grotesques  or  arabesques  of  the  Vatican,  and  other  such 
work,  which  have  become  the  patterns  of  ornamentation  in 
modern  times,  are  the  fruit  of  great  minds  degraded  to  base 
objects.  The  care,  skill,  and  science,  applied  to  the  distribu- 
tion of  the  leaves,  and  the  drawing  of  the  flgures,  are  intense, 
admirable,  and  accurate ; therefore,  they  ought  to  have  pro- 
duced a grand  and  serious  work,  not  a tissue  of  nonsense.  If 
we  can  draw  the  human  head  perfectly;,  and  are  masters  of  its 


144 


TIIIHl)  PERIOD. 


expression  and  its  beauty,  we  have  no  business  to  cut  it  off,  and 
hang  it  up  by  the  hair  at  the  end  of  a garland.  If  we  can  draw 
the  human  body  in  the  perfection  of  its  grace  and  movement, 
we  have  no  business  to  take  away  its  limbs,  and  terminate  it 
with  a bunch  of  leaves.  Or  rather  our  doing  so  will  imply 
that  there  is  something  wrong  with  us  ; that,  if  we  can  consent 
to  use  our  best  powers  for  such  base  and  vain  trifling,  there 
must  be  something  wanting  in  the  powers  themselves ; and 
that,  however  skilful  we  may  be,  or  however  learned,  we  are 
wanting  both  in  the  earnestness  which  can  a]3prehend  a noble 
truth,  and  in  the  thoughtfulness  which  can  feel  a noble  fear. 
No  Divine  terror  will  ever  be  found  in  the  work  of  the  man 
who  wastes  a colossal  strength  in  elaborating  toys ; for  the  first 
lesson  which  that  terror  is  sent  to  teach  us,  is  the  value  of  the 
human  soul,  and  the  shortness  of  mortal  time. 

§ L.  And  are  we  never,  then,  it  will  be  asked,  to  possess  a 
refined  or  perfect  ornamentation  ? Must  all  decoration  be 
the  work  of  the  ignorant  and  the  rude?  Not  so  ; but  exactly 
in  proportion- as  the  ignorance  and  rudeness  diminish,  must  the 
ornamentation  become  rational,  and  the  grotesqueness  disap- 
pear. The  noblest  lessons  may  be  taught  in  ornamentation, 
the  most  solemn  truths  compressed  into  it.  The  Book  of 
Genesis,  in  all  the  fulness  of  its  incidents,  in  all  the  depth  of 
its  meaning,  is  bound  within  the  leaf-borders  of  the  gates  of 
Ghiberti.  But  Raphael’s  arabesque  is  mere  elaborate  idleness. 
It  has  neither  meaning  nor  heart  in  it ; it  is  an  unnatural  and 
monstrous  abortion. 

§ LI.  Now,  this  passing  of  the  grotesque  into  higher  art,  as 
the  mind  of  the  workman  becomes  informed  with  better  know- 
ledge, and  capable  of  more  earnest  exertion,  takes  place  in  two 
ways.  Either,  as  his  power  increases,  he  devotes  himself  more 
and  more  to  the  beauty  which  he  now  feels  himself  able  to  ex- 
press, and  so  the  grotesqueness  expands,  and  softens  into  the 
beautiful,  as  in  the  above-named  instance  of  the  gates  of  Ghi- 
berti ; or  else,  if  the  mind  of  the  workman  be  naturally  inclined 
to  gloomy  contemplation,  tlie  imperfection  or  apathy  of  his 
work  rises  into  nobler  teri-ibleness,  until  we  reach  the  point  of 


III.  GROTESQUE  REXAISSAXCE. 


145 


the  grotesque  of  Albert  Durei*,  wliere,  every  now  and  then, 
tlie  playfulness  or  apathy  of  the  painter  passes  into  perfect 
sublime.  Take  the  Adam  and  Eve,  for  instance.  When  he 
gave  Adam  a bough  to  hold,  with  a parrot  on  it,  and  a tablet 
hung  to  it,  with  Albertus  Durer  Noricus  faciebat,  1504,” 
thereupon,  his  mind  was  not  in  Paradise.  He  was  half  in  play, 
half  apathetic  with  respect  to  his  subject,  thinking  how  to  do 
his  work  well,  as  a wise  master-graver,  and  how  to  receive  his 
just  reward  of  fame.  But  he  rose  into  the  true  sublime  in  the 
head  of  Adam,  and  in  the  profound  truthfulness  of  every  crea- 
ture that  tills  the  forest.  So  again  in  that  magniticent  coat  of 
arms,  with  the  lady  and  the  satyr,  as  he  cast  the  fluttering 
drapery  hither  and  thither  around  the  helmet,  and  wove  the 
delicate  crown  upon  the  woman’s  forehead,  he  was  in  a kind  of 
play ; but  there  is  none  in  the  dreadful  skull  upon  the  shield. 
And  in  the  Knight  and  Death,”  and  in  the  dragons  of  the 
illustrations  to  the  Apocalypse,  there  is  neither  play  nor 
apathy ; but  their  grotesque  is  of  the  ghastly  kind  which  best 
illustrates  the  nature  of  death  and  sin.  And  this  leads  us  to 
the  consideration  of  the  second  state  of  mind  out  of  which  the 
noble  grotesque  is  developed ; that  is  to  say,  the  temper  of 
mockery. 

§ Lii.  (b).  Mockery,  or  Satire.  In  the  former  part  of  this 
chapter,  when  I spoke  of  the  kinds  of  art  which  were  prodticed 
in  the  recreation  of  the  lower  orders,  I only  spoke  of  forms  of 
ornament,  not  of  the  expression  of  satire  or  humor.  But  it 
seems  probable,  that  nothing  is  so  refreshing  to  the  vulgar 
mind  as  some  exercise  of  this  faculty,  more  especially  on  the 
failings  of  their  superiors ; and  that,  wherever  the  lower  orders 
are  allowed  to  express  themselves  freely,  we  sliall  And  humoi% 
more  or  less  caustic,  becoming  a principal  feature  in  their  wm-k. 
The  classical  and  Renaissance  manufacturers  of  modern  times 
having  silenced  the  independent  language  of  the  operative,  his 
humor  and  satire  pass  away  in  the  word-wit.  which  has  of  iafe 
become  the  especial  study  of  the  group  of  authors  headed^  by 
Charles  Dickens  ; all  this  power  was  formerly  thrown  into  no- 
ble art,  and  became  iiermanently  expressed  iii  the  sculptures  of 


146 


TIIIKD  TERIOD. 


tlie  cathedral.  It  was  never  thought  that  there  was'anything 
discordant  or  improper  in  such  a position : for  the  builders 
evidently  felt  very  deeply  a truth  of  which,  in  modern  times, 
we  are  less  cognizant ; that  folly  and  sin  are,  to  a certain  ex- 
tent, synonymous,  and  that  it  would  be  well  for  mankind  in 
general,  if  all  could  be  made  to  feel  that  wickedness  is  as  con 
temptible  as  it  is  hateful.  So  that  the  vices  were  permitted  to 
be  represented  under  the  most  ridiculous  forms,  and  all  the 
coarsest  wit  of  the  workman  to  be  exhausted  in  completing 
the  degradation  of  the  creatures  supposed  to  be  subjected  to 
them. 

§ Liii.  Nor  were  even  the  supernatural  powers  of  evil  exempt 
from  this  species  of  satire.  For  with  whatever  hatred  or  horror 
the  evil  angels  were  regarded,  it  was  one  of  the  conditions  of 
Christianity  that  they  should  also  be  looked  upon  as  vanquished ; 
and  this  not  merely  in  their  great  combat  with  the  King  of 
Saints,  but  in  daily  and  hourly  combats  with  the  weakest  of 
His  servants.  In  proportion  to  the  narrowness  of  the  powers 
of  abstract  conception  in  the  workman,  the  nobleness  of  the 
idea  of  spiritual  nature  diminished,  and  the  traditions  of  the 
encounters  of  men  with  tiends  in  daily  temptations  were  im- 
agined with  less  terrific  circumstances,  until  the  agencies  which 
in  such  warfare  were  almost  always  represented  as  vanquished 
with  disgrace,  became,  at  last,  as  mucli^the  objects  of  contempt 
as  of  terror. 

The  superstitions  which  represented  the  devil  as  assuming 
various  contemptible  forms  of  disguises  in  order  to  accomplish 
his  purposes  aided  this  gradual  degradation  of  conception,  and 
directed  the  study  of  the  workman  to  the  most  strange  and 
ugly  conditions  of  animal  form,  until  at  last,  even  in  the  most 
serious  subjects,  the  fiends  are  oftener  ludicrous  than  terrible. 
Nor,  indeed,  is  this  altogether  avoidable,  for  it  is  not  possible 
to  express  intense  wickedness  without  some  condition  of  deg- 
radation. Malice,  subtlety,  and  pride,  in  their  extreme,  can- 
not be  written  upon  noble  forms ; and  I am  aware  of  no  effort 
to  represent  the  Satanic  mind  in  the  angelic  form,  which  has 
srcceeded  in  painting.  Milton  succeeds  only  because  he  sepa- 


m.  GROTESQUE  REKAISSAXCE. 


147 


rately  describes  the  inovements  of  the  mind,  and  therefore 
leaves  himself  at  liberty  to  make  the  form  heroic ; but  that 
form  is  never  distinct  enough  to  be  painted.  Dante,  who  will 
not  leave  even  external  forms  obscure,  degrades  them  before 
he  can  feel  them  to  be  demoniacal ; so  also  John  Bunyan  : both 
of  them,  I think,  having  firmer  faith  than  Milton’s  in  their 
own  creations,  and  deeper  insight  into  the  nature  of  sin.  Mil- 
ton  makes  his  fiends  too  noble,  and  misses  the  foulness,  incon- 
stancy, and  fury  of  wickedness.  His  Safan  possesses  some  vir- 
tues, not  the  less  virtues  for  being  applied  to  evil  purpose. 
Courage,  resolution,  patience,  deliberation  in  council,  this  lat- 
ter being  eminently  a wise  and  holy  character,  as  opposed  to 
the  Insania”  of  excessive  sin : and  all  this,  if  not  a shallow 
and  false,  is  a smooth  and  artistical,  conception.  On  the  other 
hand,  I have  always  felt  that  there  was  a peculiar  grandeur  in 
the  indescribable,  ungovernable  fury  of  Dante’s  fiends,  ever 
shortening  its  own  powers,  and  disappointing  its  own  purposes ; 
the  deaf,  blind,  speechless,  unspeakable  rage,  fierce  as  the  light- 
ning, but  erring  from  its  mark  or  turning  senselessly  against 
itself,  and  still  further  debased  by  foulness  of  form  and  action. 
Something  is  indeed  to  be  allowed  for  the  rude  feelings  of  the 
time,  but  I believe  all  such  men  as  Dante  are  sent  into  the 
world  at  the  time  when  they  can  do  their  work  best ; and  that, 
it  being  appointed  for  him  to  give  to  mankind  the  most  vigor- 
ous realization  possible  both  of  Hell  and  Heaven,  he  was  born 
both  in  the  country  and  at  the  time  which  furnished  the  most 
stern  opposition  of  Horror  and  Beauty,  and  permitted  it  to  be 
written  in  the  clearest  terms.  And,  therefore,  though  there 
are  passages  in  the  Inferno”  which  it  would  be  impossible  for 
any  poet  now  to  write,  I look  upon  it . as  all  the  more  perfect 
for  them.  For  there  can  be  no  question  but  that  one  charac- 
teristic of  excessive  vice  is  indecency,  a general  baseness  in 
its  thoughts  and  acts  concerning  the  body,"^  and  that  the  full 
portraiture  of  it  cannot  be  given  without  marking,  and  that  in 
the  strongest  lines,  this  tendency  to  corporeal  degradation  ; 

* Let  the  reader  examine,  with  special  reference  to  this  subject,  the  gen- 
eral character  of  the  language  of  lago. 


148 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


wliicL,  ill  the  time  of  Dante,  could  be  done  frankly,  but  cannot 
now.  And,  therefore,  I think  the  twenty-first  and  twenty- 
second  books  of  the  Inferno”  the  most  perfect  portraitures 
of  fiendish  nature  which  we  possess ; and  at  the  same  time,  in 
tlieir  mingling  of  the  extreme  of  horror  (for  it  seems  to  me 
that  the  silent  swiftness  of  the  first  demon,  con  V ali  aperte  e 
sovra  i pie  leggiero,”  cannot  be  surpassed  in  dreadfulness)  witli 
ludicrous  actions  and  images,,  they  present  the  most  perfect  in- 
stances with  Avhich  I*am  acquainted  of  the  terrible  grotesque. 
But  the  whole  of  the  Inferno”  is  full  of  this  grotesque,  as 
well  as  the  Faerie  Queen;”  and  these  two  poems,  together 
with  the  works  of  Albert  Durer,  will  enable  the  reader  to  study 
it  in  its  noblest  forms,  without  reference  to  Gothic  cathedrals. 

§ Liv.  Now,  just  as  there  are  base  and  noble  conditions  of 
the  apathetic  grotesque,  so  also  are  there  of  this  satirical  gro- 
tesque. The  condition  which  might  be  mistaken  for  it  is  that 
above  described  as  resulting  from  the  malice  of  men  given  to 
pleasure,  and  in  which  the  grossness  and  foulness  are  in  the 
workman  as  much  as  in  his  subject,  so  that  he  chooses  to  repre- 
sent vice  and  disease  rather  than  virtue  and  beauty,  having  his 
chief  delight  in  contemplating  them ; though  he  still  mocks  at 
them  with  such  dull  wit  as  may  be  in  him,  because,  as  Young 
has  said  most  truly, 

“ ’Tis  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a fool.” 

§ LV.  Now  it  is  easy  to  distinguish  this  grotesque  from  its 
noble  counterpart,  by  merely  observing  whether  any  forms  of 
beauty  or  dignity  are  mingled  wdth  it  or  not ; for,  of  course, 
the  noble  grotesque  is  only  employed  by  its  master  for  good 
purposes,  and  to  contrast  with  beauty : but  the  base  workman 
cannot  conceive  anything  but  what  is  base ; and  there  will  be 
no  loveliness  in  any  part  of  his  work,  or,  at  the  best,  a loveli- 
ness measured  by  line  and  rule,  and  dependent  on  legal  shapes 
of  feature.  But,  without  resorting  to  this  test,  and  merely  by 
examining  the  ugly  grotesque  itself,  it  will  be  found  that,  if  it 
belongs  to  the  base  school,  there  will  be,  first,  no  Horror  in  it; 
secondly,  no  Nature  in  it ; and,  thirdly,  no  Mercy  in  it.. 


111.  GKOTESQUE  EtXAISSAyCK.  \'P.) 

§ Lvx.  I say,  first,  no  Horror.  For  tne  baiss.  suul  lias  no 
fear  of  sin,  and  no  hatred  of  it : and,  however  it  may  strire  to 
make  its  work  terrible,  there  v/ill  be  no  genuineness  in  the 
fear;  tlie  utmost  it  can  do  will  be  to  make  its  work  disg^isting. 

Secondly,  there  will  bo  no  Xatuie  in  it.  It  appears  to  be 
one  of  tlie  ends  proposed  by  Provddence  in  the  appointment 
of  the  forms  of  the  bmte  creation,  that  the  various  vices  to 
which  mankind  are  liable  should  be  sev^erally  expressed  in 
them  so  distinctly  and  clearly  as  that  men  could  not  but  under- 
stand the  lesson ; while  yet  these  conditions  of  vice  might,  in 
the  inferior  animal,  be  observed  without  the  disgust  and  hatred 
which  the  same  vices  would  excite,  if  seen  in  men,  and  miglit 
be  associated  with  'features  of  interest  which  would  otherwise 
attract  and  reward  contemplation.  Thus,  ferocity,  cunning, 
sloth,  discontent,  gluttony,  uncleanness,  and  cruelty  are  seen, 
each  in  its  extreme,  in  various  animals;  and  are  so  vigorously 
expressed,  that  when  men  desire  to  indicate  tlie  same  vices  in 
connexion  Avith  human  forms,  they  can  do  it  no  better  than 
by  borrowing  here  and  there  the  features  of  animals.  And 
when  the  workman  is  thus  led  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
animal  kingdom,  finding  therein  the  expressions  of  vice  which 
he  needs,  associated  with  power,  and  nobleness,  and  freedom 
from  disease,  if  his  mind  be  of  right  tone  he  becomes  inter- 
ested in  this  new  study ; and  all  noble  grotesque  is,  therefore, 
full  of  the  most  admirable  rendering  of  animal  character.  But 
the  ignoble  workman  is  capable  of  no  interest  of  tins  kind ; 
and,  being  too  dull  to  appreciate,  and  too  idle  to  execute,  the 
subtle  and  wonderful  lines  on  which  the  expression  of  the 
lower  animal  depends,  he  contents  himself  with  vulgar  exag- 
geration, and  leaves  his  work  as  false  as  it  is  monstrous,  a mass 
of  blunt  malice  and  obscene  ignorance. 

§ LVTi.  Lastly,  there  will  be  no  Mercy  in  it.  Wherever 
the  satire  of  the  noble  grotesque  fixes  Upon  human  nature,  it 
does  so  with  rriucli  sorrow  mingled  amidst  its  indignation : in 
its  highest  forms  there  is  an  infinite  tenderness,  like  that  of 
the  fool  in  Lear ; and  even  in  its  more  heedless  or  bitter  sar- 
casm, it  never  loses  sight  altogether  of  the  better  nature-  of 


150 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


wliat  it  attacks,  nor  refuses  to  acknowledge  its  redeeming  or 
pardonable  features.  But  the  ignoble  grotesque  lias  no  pity  : 
it  rejoices  in  iniquity,  and  exists  only  to  slander. 

§ Lviii.  I have  not  space  to  follow  out  the  various  forms  of 
transition  wliicii  exist  between  the  two  extremes  of  great 
and  base  in  the  satirical  grotesque.  The  reader  must  always 
remember,  that,  although  there  is  an  infinite  distance  between 
the  best  and  worst,  in  tliis  kind  the  interval  is  filled  by  endless 
conditions  more  or  less  inclining  to  the  evil  or  the  good  ; im- 
purity and  malice  stealing  gradually  into  the  nobler  forms, 
and  invention  and  wit  elevating  the  lower,  according  to  the 
countless  minglings  of  the  elements  of  the  human  soul. 

§ Lix.  (c).  Ungovernableness  of  the  imagination.  The 
reader  is  always  to  keep  in  mind  that  if  the  objects  of  horror, 
in  which  the  terrible  grotesque  finds  its  materials,  were  con- 
templated in  their  true  light,  and  with  the  entire  energy  of 
the  soul,  they  would  cease  to  be  grotesque,  and  become  alto- 
gether sublime ; and  that  therefore  it  is  some  shortening  of 
the  power,  or  the  will,  of  contemplation,  and  some  conse- 
quent distortion  of  the  terrible  image  in  which  the  grotesque- 
ness consists.  'Now  this  distortion  takes  place,  it  was  above 
asserted,  in  three  ways : either  througli  apathy,  satire,  or 
ungovernableness  of  imagination.  It  is  this  last  cause  of  the 
grotesque  which  we  have  finally  to  consider ; namely,  the 
error  and  wildness  of  the  mental  impressions,  caused  by  fear 
operating  upon  strong  j)owers  of  imagination,  or  by  the  failuic 
of  the  human  faculties  in  the  endeavor  to  grasp  the  highest 
truths. 

§‘LX.  The  grotesque  which  comes  to  all  men  in  a disturbed 
dicain  is  the  most  intelligible  example  of  this  kind,  but  also 
the  most  ignoble;  the  imagination,  in  this  instance,  being 
entirely  deprived  of  all  aid  from  reason,  and  incapable  of  self- 
government.  I believe,  however,  that  the  noblest  forms  of 
imaginative  power  are  also  in  some  sort  ungovernable,  and 
have  in  them  something  of  the  character  of  dreams ; so  that 
the  vision,  of  whatever  kind,  comes  uncalled,  and  will  not 
submit  itself  to  the  seer,  but  conquers  him,  and  forces  him  to 


III.  GllOTESQUE  KEXAISSAisCE. 


151 


speak  as  a prophet,  having  no  power  over  his  words  or 
thoughts.^  Onlj^  if  the  wdiole  man  be  trained  perfectly,  and 
his  mind  calm,  consistent  and  powerful,  the  vision  which 
comes  to  him  is  seen  as  in  a perfect  mirror,  serenely,  and  in 

* This  opposition  of  art  to  inspiration  is  long  and  gracefully  dwelt  upon 
by  Plato,  in  his  “Phaedrus,”  using,  in  the  course  of  his  argument,  almost 
the  words  of  St  Paul:  nocXkiov  pLaprvpov6iv  oi  naXaioi  paviav  doo- 
cppodvrp‘5  TT/v  £M  0£OV  TT/^  uixp  dvBpQOTtGDv  yiyvopevpi\  “It  is  the 
testimony  of  the  ancients,  that  the  madness  which  is  of  God  is  a nobler  thing 
than  the  wisdom  which  is  of  men  f'  and  again,  “He  who  sets  himself  to  any 
work  with  which  the  Muses  have  to  do,”  (i.  e to  any  of  the  fine  arts,)  “with, 
out  madness,  thinking  that  by  art  alone  he  can  do  his  work  sufficiently,  will 
be  found  vain  and  incapable,  and  the  work  of  temperance  and  rationalism 
will  be  thrust  aside  and  obscured  by  that  of  inspiration.”  The  passages  to 
the  same  effect,  relating  especially' to  poetry,  are  innumerable  in  nearly  all 
ancient  writers  ; but  in  this  of  Plato,  the  entire  compass  of  the  fine  arts  is 
intended  to  be  embraced. 

No  one  acquainted  with  other  parts  of  my  writings  will  suppose  me  to 
be  an  advocate  of  idle  trust  in  the  imagination.  But  it  is  in  these  days  just 
as  necessary  to  allege  the  supremacy  of  genius  as  the  necessity  of  labor;  for 
there  never  was,  perhaps,  a period  in  which  the  peculiar  gift  of  the  painter 
was  so  little  discerned,  in  which  so  many  and  so  vain  efforts  have  been 
made  to  replace  it  by  study  and  toil.  This  has  been  peculiarly  the  case 
with  the  German  school , and  there  are  few  exhibitions  of  human  error 
more  pitiable  than  the  manner  in  which  the  inferior  members  of  it,  men 
originally  and  for  ever  destitute  of  the  painting  faculty,  force  themselves 
into  an  unnatural,  encumbered,  learned  fructification  of  tasteless  fruit,  and 
pass  laborious  lives  in  setting  obscurely  and  weakly  upon  canvas  the 
philosophy,  if  such  it  be,  which  ten  minutes’  work  of  a strong  man  would 
have  put  into  healthy  practice,  or  plain  words  I know  not  anything  more 
melancholy  than  the  sight  of  the  huge  German  cartoon,  with  its  objective 
side,  and  subjective  side  ; and  mythological  division,  and  symbolical  divi- 
sion, and  human  and  Divine  division  ; its  allegorical  sense,  and  literal 
sense  ; and  ideal  point  of  view,  and  inteflectual  point  of  view  ; its  heroism 
of  well-made  armor  and  knitted  brows  • its  heroinism  of  graceful  attitude 
and  braided  hair  ; its  inwoven  web  of  sentiment,  and  piety,  and  phi- 
losophy, and  anatomy,  and  history,  all  profound  ; and  twenty  innocent 
dashes  of  the  hand  of  one  God-made  painter,  poor  old  Bassan  or  Bonifazio, 
were  worth  it  all,  and  worth  it  ten  thousand  times  over 

Not  that  the  sentiment  or  the  philosophy  is  base  in  itself.  They  will 
make  a good  man, but  they  will  not  make  a good  painter, — no,  nor  the  mil- 
lionth part  of  a painter.  They  would  have  been  good  in  the  work  ana 
words  of  daily  life  ; but  they  are  good  for  nothing  in  the  cartoon,  if  they 
are  there  alone,  And  the  worst  result  of  the  system  is  the  intense  conceit 


152 


THIKD  PERIOD. 


consistence  with  the  rational  powers  ; but  if  the  mind  l>e- 
imperfect  and  ill  trained,  the  vision  is  seen  as  in  a broken 
mirror,  with  strange  distortions  and  discrepancies,  all  the  pas- 
sions of  the  heart  breathing  upon  it  in  cross  ripples,  till  hardly 
a trace  of  it  remains  unbroken.  So  that,  strictly  speaking, 
the  imagination  is  never  governed ; it  is  always  the  ruling 
and  Divine  power : and  the  rest  of  the  man  is  to  it  only  as  an 
instrument  which  it  sounds,  or  a tablet  on  which  it  writes; 
clearly  and  sublimely  if  the  wax  be  smooth  and  the  strings 
true,  grotesquely  and  wildly  if  they  are  stained  and  broken. 
And  thus  the  Iliad,’’  the  Inferno,”  the  Pilgrim’s  Pro- 
gress,” the  “ Faerie  Queen,”  are  all  of  them  true  dreams  ; 
only  the  sleep  of  the  men  to  whom  they  came  was  the  deep, 
living  sleep  which  God  sends,  with  a sacredness  in  it,  as  of 
death,  the  revealer  of  secrets. 

§ Lxi.  Now,  observe  in  this  matter,  carefully,  the  difference 
between  a dim  mirror  and  a distorted  one  ; and  do  not  blame 
me  for  pressing  the  analogy  too  far,  for  it  will  enable  me  to 
explain  my  meaning  every  way  more  clearly.  Most  men’s 
minds  are  dim  mirrors,  in  which  all  truth  is  seen,  as  St.  Paul 
tells  us,  darkly  : this  is  the  fault  most  common  and  most  fatal ; 
dulness  of  the  heart  and  mistiness  of  sight,  increasing  to  utter 
hardness  and  blindness ; Satan  breathing  upon  the  glass,  so 
that  if  we  do  not  sweep  the  mist  laboriously  away,  it  will  take 
no  image.  But,  even  so  far  as  we  are  able  to  do  this,  we  have 
still  the  distortion  to  fear,  yet  not  to  the  same  extent,  for  we 

into  which  it  cultivates  a weak  mind.  Nothing  is  so  hopeless,  so  intoler- 
able, as  the  pride  of  a foolish  man  who  has  passed  through  a process  of 
thinking,  so  as  actually  to  have  found  something  out  He  believes  there*is 
nothing  else  to  be  found  out  in  the  universe.  Whereas  the  truly  great  man, 
on  whom  the  Revelations  rain  till  they  bear  him  to  the  earth  with  their 
weight,  lays  his  head  in  the  dust,  and  speaks  thence — often  in  broken 
syllables.  Vanity  is  indeed  a very  equally  divided  inheritance  among 
mankind  ; but  I think  that  among  the  first  persons,  no  emphasis  is  alto- 
gether so  strong  as  that  on  the  German  Ich.  I was  once  introduced  to  a 
German  philosopher-painter  before  Tintoret’s  “Massacre  of  the  Innocents.” 
He  looked  at  it  superciliously,  and  said  it  “wanted  to  be  restored.”  He 
had  been  himself  several  3^ears  employed  in  painting  a “Faust”  in  a I'ed 
ierkiu  and  blue  fire  ; which  made  Tintoret  appear  somewhat  dull  to  him. 


III.  GROTESQUE  REis^AISSANCE. 


153 


can  in  some  sort  allow  for  the  distortion  of  an  image,  if  only 
we  can  see  it  clearly.  And  the  fallen  human  soul,  at  its  best, 
must  be  as  a diminishing  glass,  and  that  a broken  one,  to  the 
mighty  truths  of  the  universe  round  it ; and  the  wider  the 
scope  of  its  glance,  and  the  vaster  the  truths  into  which  it 
obtains  an  insight,  the  more  fantastic  their  distortion  is  likely 
to  be,  as  the  winds  and  vapors  trouble  the  field  of  the  telescope 
most  when  it  reaches  farthest. 

§ Lxii.  Now,  so  far  as  the  truth  is  seen  by  the  imagination* 
in  its  wholeness  and  quietness,  the  vision  is  sublime ; but  so 
far  as  it  is  narrowed  and  broken  by  the  inconsistencies  of  the 
human  capacity,  it  becomes  grotesque : and  it  would  seem  to 
be  rare  that  any  very  exalted  truth  should  be  impressed  on  the 
imagination  without  some  grotesqueness  in  its  aspect,  propor- 
tioned to  the  degree  of  diminution  ofhreadtli  in  the  grasp 
which  is  given  of  it.  Nearly  all  the  dreams  recorded  in  the 
Bible, — Jacob’s,  Joseph’s,  Pharaoh’s,  Nebuchadnezzar’s, — are 
grotesques ; and  nearly  the  whole  of  the  accessary  scenery  in 
the  books  of  Ezekiel  and  the  Apocalypse.  Thus,  Jacob’s 
dream  revealed  to  him  the  ministry  of  angels ; but  because 
this  ministry  could  not  be  seen  or  understood  by  him  in  its 
fulness,  it  was  narrowed  to  him  into  a ladder  between  heaven 
and  earth,  which  was  a grotesque.  Joseph’s  two  dreams  were 
evidently  intended  to  be  signs  of  the  steadfastness  of  the 
Divine  purpose  towards  him,  by  possessing  the  clearness  of 
special  prophecy  ; yet  w'ere  couched  in  such  imagery,  as  not 
to  inform  him  prematurely  of  his  destiny,  and  only  to  be 
understood  after  their  fulfilment.  The  sun,  and  moon,  and 
stars  were  at  the  period,  and  are  indeed  throughout  the  Bible, 
the  symbols  of  high  authority.  It  w^as  not  revealed  to  Joseph 
that  he  should  be  lord  over  all  Egypt ; but  the  representation 
of  his  family  by  symbols  of  the  most  magnificent  dominion, 
and  yet  as  subject  to  him,  must  have  been  afterwards  felt  by 
him  as  a distinctly  prophetic  indication  of  his  own  supreme 
power.  It  was  not  revealed  to  him  that  the  occasion  of  liis 

* I have  before  stated  (‘‘Modern  Painters”  vol.  ii.)  that  the  hrst  func- 
tion  of  the  imagination  is  the  apprehension  of  ultimate  truth, 


154 


Tliliil)  J^EIUOI). 


brethren’s  special  liumiliation  before  him  should  be  their  corn* 
ing  to  buy  corn ; but  when  the  event  took  place,  must  he  not 
have  felt  that  there  was  prophetic  purpose  in  the  form  of  the 
sheaves  of  wheat  which  lirst  imaged  forth  their  subjection  .to 
him  ? And  the^e  two  images  of  the  sun  doing  obeisance,  and 
the  slieaves  bowing  down, — narrowed  and  imperfect  intima- 
tions of  great  truth  which  yet  could  not  be  otlierwise  con- 
veyed,— are  both  grotesque.  The  kine  of  Pharaoh  eating 
each  other,  the  gold  and  clay  of  Nebuchadnezzar’s  image,  the 
four  beasts  full  of  eyes,  and  other  imagery  of  Ezekiel  and  the 
Aj)ocalypse,  are  grotesques  of  the  same  kind,  on  which  I need 
not  further  insist. 

§ LXiii.  Such  forms,  liowever,  ought  perhaps  to  have  been 
arranged  under  a separate  head,  as  Symbolical  Grotesque ; but 
the  element  of  awe  enters  into  them  so  strongly,  as  to  justify, 
for  all  our  present  purposes,  their  being  classed  with  the  other 
varieties  of  terrible  grotesque.  For  even  if  the  symbolic 
vision  itself  be  not  terrible,  the  sense  of  what  may  be  veiled 
behind  it  becomes  all  the  more  awful  in  proportion  to  the 
insignificance  or  strangeness  of  the  sign  itself ; and,  I believe, 
this  thrill  of  mingled  doubt,  fear,  and  curiosity  lies  at  the  very 
joot  of  the  delight  which  mankind  take  in  symbolism.  It  was 
not  an  accidental  necessity  for  the  conveyance  of  truth  by 
pictures  instead  of  words,  which  led  to  its  universal  adoption 
wherever  art  was  on  the  advance;  but  the  Divine  fear  which 
necessarily  follows  on  the  understanding  that  a thing  is  other 
and  greater  than  it  seems ; and  which,  it  appeal’s  probable, 
has  been  rendered  pecuiiarly  attractive  to  the  human  heart, 
because  God  would  have  us  understand  that  this  is  true  not 
of  invented  symbols  merely,  but  of  all  things  amidst  which 
we  live ; that  there  is  a deeper  meaning  within  them  than  eye 
hath  seen,  or  ear  hath  heard ; and  that  the  whole  visible  crea- 
tion is  a mere  perishable  symbol  of  things  eternal  and  true. 
It  cannot  but  have  been  sometimes  a subject  of  wonder  with 
thouglitful  men,  how  fondly,  age  after  age,  the  Church  lias 
cherished  the  belief  that  the  four  living  creatures  which  sur 
rounded  the  Apocalyptic  throne  were  symbols  of  tlic  four 


III.  GROTESQUE  REKAISSAKOE. 


155 


Evangelists,  and  rejoiced  to  use  those  forms  in  its  picture- 
teaching;  that  a calf,  a lion,  an  eagle,  and  a beast  with  a 
man’s  face,  should  in  all  ages  have  been  preferred  by  the 
Christian  world,  as  expressive  of  Evangelistic  power  and  in- 
spiration, to  the  majesty  of  human  forms;  and  that  quaint 
grotesques,  awkward  and  often  ludicrous  caricatures  even  of 
the  animals  represented,  should  have  been  regarded  by  all  men, 
not  only  with  contentment,  but  with  awe,  and  have  superseded 
all  endeavors  to  represent  the  characters  and  persons  of  the 
Evangelistic  writers  themselves  (except  in  a few  instances, 
confined  principally  to  works  undertaken  without  a definite 
religious  purpose) ; — this,  I say,  iniglit  appear  more  than 
strange  to  us,  were  it  not  that  we  ourselves  share  the  awe, 
and  are  still  satisfied  with  the  symbol,  and  that  justly.  For, 
whether  we  are  conscious  of  it  or  not,  there  is  in  our  hearts, 
as  we  gaze  upon  the  brutal  forms  that  have  so  holy  a signifi- 
cation, an  acknowledgment  that  it  was  not  Matthew,  nor 
Mark,  nor  Luke,  nor  John,  in  whom  the  Gospel  of  Christ 
was  unsealed : but  that  the  invisible  things  of  Him  from  the 
beginning  of  the  creation  are  clearly  seen,  being  understood 
by  the  things  that  are  made ; that  the  whole  world,  and  all 
that  is  therein,  be  it  low  or  high,  great  or  small,  is  a continual 
Gospel ; and  that  as  the  heathen,  in  their  alienation  from  God, 
changed  His  glory  into  an  image  made  like  unto  corruj)tible 
]nan,  and  to  birds,  and  four-footed  beasts,  the  Christian,  in  his 
approach  to  God,  is  to  undo  this  work,  and  to  change  the  cor- 
ruptible things  into  the  image  of  His  glory ; believing  that 
there  is  nothing  so  base  in  creation,  but  that  our  faith  may 
give  it  wings  which  shall  raise  us  into  companionship  with 
heaven ; and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  nothing  so  great 
or  so  goodly  in  creation,  but  that  it  is  a mean  symbol  of  the 
Gospel  of  Christ,  and  of  the  things  He  has  prepared  for  them 
that  love  Him. 

§ Lxiv.  And  it  is  easy  to  understand,  if  we  follow  out  this 
thought,  how,  when  once  the  symbolic  language  was  familiar- 
ized to  the  mind,  and  its  solemnity  felt  m all  its  fulness,  there 
was  no  likelihood  of  ofl'ence  being  taken  at  any  rejuilsive  or 


15G 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


feeble  characters  in  execution  or  conception.  There  was  no 
form  so  mean,  no  incident  so  commonplace,  but,  if  regarded 
in  this  light,  it  might  become  sublime  ; the  more  vigorous  the 
fancy  and  the  more  faithful  the  enthusiasm,  the  greater  would 
be  the  likelihood  of  their  delighting  in  the  contemplation  of 
symbols  whose  mystery  was  enhanced  by  apparent  insignifi- 
cance, or  in  which  the  sanctity  and  majesty  of  meaning  were 
contrasted  with  the  utmost  uncouthness  of  external  form  : nor 
with  uncouthness  merely,  but  even  with  every  appearance  of 
malignity  or  baseness;  the  beholder  not  being  revolted  even 
by  this,  but  comprehending  that,  as  the  seeming  evil  in  the 
framework  of  creation  did  not  invalidate  its  Divine  author- 
ship, so  neither  did  the  evil  or  imperfection  in  the  symbol 
invalidate  its  Divine  message.  And  thus,  sometimes,  the 
designer  at  last  became  wanton  in  his  appeal  to  the  piety  of 
his  interpreter,  and  recklessly  poured  out  the  impurity  and 
the  savageness  of  his  own  heart,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  seeing 
them  overlaid  with  the  fine  gold  of  the  sanctuary,  by  the  rein 
gion  of  their  beholder. 

§ Lxv.  It  is  not,  however,  in  every  symbolical  subject  that 
the  fearful  grotesque  becomes  embodied  to  the  full.  The 
element  of  distortion  which  affects  the  intellect  when  dealing 
with  subjects  above  its  proper  capacity,  is  as  nothing  compared 
with  that  which  it  sustains  from  the  direct  impressions  of 
terror.  It  is  the  trembling  of  the  human  soul  in  the  presence  . 
of  death  which  most  of  all  disturbs  the  images  on  the  intellec- 
tual mirror,  and  invests  them  with  the  fitfulness  and  ghastli- 
ness of  dreams.  And  from  the  contemplation  of  death,  and 
of  the  pangs  which  follow  his  footsteps,  arise  in  men’s  hearts 
the  troop  of  strange  and  irresistible  superstitions  which,  more 
or  less  melancholy  or  majestic  according  to  the  dignity  of  the 
mind  they  impress,  are  yet  never  without  a certain  grotesque- 
ness, following  on  the  ]3aralysis  of  the  reason  and  over-excite- 
ment of  the  fancy.  I do  not  mean  to  deny  the  actual  exist- 
ence of  spiritual  manifestations;  I have  never  weighed  the 
e\  idence  upon  the  subject ; but  with  these,  if  such  exist,  we 
are  not  liere  concerned.  The  grotesque  which  wc  are  examiiv 


III.  GROTESQUE  REXAISSAKCE. 


157 


iiig  arises  out  of  that  condition  of  mind  which  appears  to  fol 
low  naturally  upon  the  contemplation  of  death,  and  in  which 
the  fancy  is  brought  into  molbid  action  by  terror,  accom- 
pained  by  the  belief  in  sj)iritnal  presence,  and  in  the  possibility 
of  spiritual  apparition.  Hence  are  developed  its  most  sublime, 
because  its  least  voluntary,  creations,  aided  by  the  fearfulness  of 
the  phenomena  of  nature  which  are  in  any  wise  the  ministers 
of  death,  and  primarily  directed  by  the  peculiar  ghastliness  of 
expression  in  the  skeleton,  itself  a species  of  terrible  grotesque 
in  its  relation  to  the  perfect  human  frame. 

§ Lxvi.  Thus,  first  born  from  the  dusty  and  dreadful  white- 
ness of  the  charnel  house,  but  softened  in  their  forms  by  the 
holiest  of  human  affections,  went  forth  the  troop  of  wild  and 
wonderful  images,  seen  through  tears,  that  had  the  mastery 
over  our  Northern  hearts  for  so  many  ages.  The  powers  of 
sudden  destruction  lurking  in  the  woods  and  waters,  in  the 
rocks  and  clouds; — kelpie  and  gnome,  Lurlei  and  Hartz 
spirits ; the  wraith  and  foreboding  phantom  ; the  spectra  of 
second  sight ; the  various  conceptions  of  avenging  or  tor- 
mented ghost,  haunting  the  perpetrator  of  crime,  or  expiating 
its  commission  ; and  the  half  fictitious  and  contemplative,  half 
visionary  and  believed  images  of  the  presence  of  death  itself, 
doing  its  daily  work  in  the  chambers  of  sickness  and  sin,  and 
waiting  for  its  hour  in  the  fortalices  of  strength  and  the  high 
•places  of  pleasure ; — these,  partly  degrading  us  by  the  instinc- 
tive and  paralyzing  terror  with  which  they  are  attended,  and 
partly  ennobling  us  by  leading  our  thoughts  to  dwell  in  the 
eternal  world,  fill  the  last  and  the  most  important  circle  in 
that  great  kingdom  of  dark  and  distorted  power,  of  which  we  all 
must  be  in  some  sort  the  subjects  until  mortality  shall  be  swal- 
lowed up  of  life ; until  the  waters  of  the  last  fordless  river 
cease  to  roll  their  untransparent  volume  between  us  and  the 
light  of  heaven,  and  neither  death  stand  between  us  and  our 
brethren,  nor  symbols  between  us  and  our  God. 

§ Lxvii.  We  have  now,  I believe,  obtained  a view  ap- 
proaching to  completeness  of  the  various  l)ranches  of  human 
feeling  wliich  are  concerned  in  the  develoj)ement  of  this  p)ecu- 


158 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


liar  form  of  art.  It  remains  for  us  only  to  note,  as  briefly  as 
possible,  what  facts  in  the  actual  history  of  the  grotesque  bear 
upon  our  immediate  subject. 

From  what  we  have  seen  to  be  its  nature,  we  must,  I think, 
be  led  to  one  most  important  conclusion  ; that  whei’ever  the 
liuman  mind  is  healthy  and  vigorous  in  all  its  proportions, 
great  in  imagination  and  emotion  no  less  than  in  intellect,  and 
not  overborne  by  an  undue  or  hardened  preeminence  of  the 
mere  reasoning  faculties,  there  the  grotesque  will  exist  in  full 
energy.  And,  accordingly,  I believe  that  there  is  no  test  of 
greatness  in  periods,  nations,  or  men,  more  sure  than  the 
developement,  among  them  or  in  them,  of  a noble  grotesque, 
and  no  test  of  comparative  smallness  or  limitation,  of  one  kind 
or  another,  more  sure  than  the  absence  of  grotesque  invention, 
or  incapability  of  understanding  it.  I think  that  the  central 
man  of  ^#1  the  world,  as  representing  in  perfect  balance  the 
imaginative,  moral,  and  intellectual  faculties,  all  at  their 
highest,  is  Dante  ; and  in  him  the  grotesque  reaches  at  once 
the  most  distinct  and  the  most  noble  developement  to  which  it 
was  ever  brought  in  the  human  mind.  The  two  other  greatest 
men  v/hom  Italy  has  produced,  Michael  Angelo  and  Tintoret, 
show  the  same  element  in  no  less  original  strength,  but  op- 
pressed in^the  one  by  his  science,  and  in  both  by  the  spirit  of 
the  age  in  which  they  lived ; never,  however,  absent  even  in 
Michael  Angelo,  but  stealing  forth  continually  in  a strange 
and  spectral  way,  lurking  in  folds  of  raiment  and  knots  of 
wild  hair,  and  mountainous  confusions  of  craggy  limb  and 
cloudy  drapery  ; and,  in  Tintoret,  ruling  the  entire  conceptions 
of  his  greatest  works  to  such  a degree  that  they  are  an 
enigma  or  an  offence,  even  to  this  day,  to  all  the  petty  disci- 
ples of  a formal  criticism.  Of  the  grotesque  in  our  own 
Shakspeare  I need  liardly  speak,  nor  of  its  intolerableness  to 
his  French  critics;  nor  of  that  of  M^schylus  and  Homer,  as 
opposed  to  the  lower  Greek  writei’s  ; and  so  I lielieve  it  will 
be  found,  at  all  periods,  in  all  minds  of  the  first  order. 

§ Lxviii.  As  an  index  of  the  gi-eatness  of  nations,  it  is  a less 
certain  test,  oi*,  rather,  we  are  not  so  well  agreed  on  the  mean- 


III.  GROTESQUE  REXAISSAXCE. 


159 


ing  of  the  term  greatness”  respecting  them.  A nation  may 
produce  a great  effect,  and  take  up  a high  place  in  tlie  world’s 
liistory,  by  the  temporary  enthusiasm  or  fury  of  its  multitudes, 
without  being  truly  great ; or,  on  the  other  hand,  the  disci- 
pline of  morality  and  common  sense  may  extend  its  physical 
power  or  exalt  its  well-being,  while  yet  its  creative  and 
imaginative  powers  are  continually  diminishing.  And  again  : 
a people  may  take  so  definite  a lead  over  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  in  one  direction,  as  to  obtain  a respect  which  is  not 
justly  due  to  them  if  judged  on  universal  grounds.  Thus  the 
Greeks  perfected  tlie  sculpture  of  the  human  body ; threw 
their  literature  into  a disciplined  form,  which  has  given  it  a 
peculiar  power  over  certain  conditions  of  modern  mind ; and 
were  the  most  carefully  educated  race  that  the  world  has  seen ; 
but  a few  years  hence,  I believe,  we  shall  no  longer  think 
them  a greatei*  people  than  either  the  Egyptians  or  Assyrians. 

§ Lxix.  If,  then,  ridding  ourselves  as  far  as  possible  of  pre- 
judices owing  merely  to  the  school-teaching  which  remains 
from  the  system  of  the  Renaissance,  we  set  ourselves  to  dis- 
cover in  what  races  the  human  soul,  taken  all  in  all,  reached 
its  highest  magnificence,  we  shall  find,  I believe,  two  great 
families  of  men,  one  of  the  East  and  South,  the  other  of  the 
West  and  North:  the  one  including  the  Egyptians,  Jews, 
Arabians,  Assyrians,  and  Persians ; the  other,  I know  not 
whence  derived,  but  seeming  to  flow  forth  from  Scandinavia, 
and  filling  the  wdiole  of  Europe  with  its  Norman  and  Gothic 
energy.  And  in  both  these  families,  wherever  they  are  seen 
in  their  utmost  nobleness,  there  the  grotesque  is  developed  in 
its  utmost  energy  ; and  I hardly  know  whether  most  to  admire 
the  winged  bulls  of  Nineveh,  or  the  winged  dragons  of 
Verona. 

§ Lxx.  The  reader  who  has  not  before  turned  his  attention 
to  this  subject  may,  however,  at  first  have  some  difficulty  in 
distinguishing  between  the  noble  grotesque  of  these  great 
nations,  and  the  barbarous  grotesque  of  mere  savages,  as  seen 
in  the  work  of  the  Hindoo  and  other  Indian  nations ; or,  more 
grossly  still,  in  that  of  the  complete  savage  of  the  Paciflc 


100 


TJUJIT}  PErvIOT). 


islands;  or  if,  as  is  to  l>e  lioped,  he  i n sti net ively_f eels  the  dif- 
ference, he  may  yet  find  difficulty  in  determining  wherein 
that  difference  consists.  But  he  will  discover,  on  considera- 
tion, that  the  noble  grotesque  involves  the  true  wppreciation 
of  beauty^  though  the  mind  may  wilfully  turn  to  other  images 
or  the  hand  resolutely  stop  short  of  the  perfection  which  it 
must  fail,  if  it  endeavored,  to  reach ; while  the  grotesque  of 
the  Sandwich  islander  involves  no  perception  or  imagination 
of  anything  above  itself.  He  will  find  that  in  the  exact  pro- 
portion in  which  the  grotesque  results  from  an  incapability  of 
perceiving  beauty,  it  becomes  savage  or  barbarous ; and  that 
there  are  many  stages  of  progress  to  be  found  in  it  even  in  its 
best  times,  much  truly  savage  grotesque  occurring  in  the  fine 
Gothic  periods,  mingled  with  the  other  forms  of  the  ignoble 
grotesque  resulting  from  vicious  inclinations  or  base  sportive- 
ness. Hothing  is  more  mysterious  in  the  history  of  the  human 
mind,  than  the  manner  in  which  gross  and  ludicrous  images 
are  mingled  with  the  most  solemn  subjects  in  the  work  of 
the  middle  ages,  whether  of  sculpture  or  illumination  ; and 
although,  in  great  part,  such  incongruities  are  to  be  accounted 
for  on  the  various  princi23les  which  I have  above  endeavored 
to  define,  in  many  instances  they  are  clearly  the  result  of  vice 
and  sensuality.  The  general  greatness  of  seriousness  of  an 
age  does  not  effect  the  restoration  of  hnman  nature ; and  it 
would  be  strange,  if,  in  the  midst  of  the  art  even  of  the  best 
periods,  when  that  art  was  entrusted  to  myriads  of  workmen, 
we  found  no  manifestations  of  impiety,  folly,  or  impurity. 

§ Lxxi.  It  needs  only  to  be  added  that  in  the  noble  grotesque, 
as  it  is  partly  the  result  of  a morbid  state  of  the  imaginative 
power,  that  power  itself  will  be  always  seen  in  a high  degree ; 
and  that  therefore  our  power  of  judging  of  the  rank  of  a 
grotesque  work  will  depend  on  the  degree  in  which  we  ain 
in  general  sensible  of  the  presence  of  invention.  The  reader 
may  partly  test  this  power  in  himself  by  referring  to  the 
Plate  given  in  the  opening  of  this  chapter,  in  which,  on  the 
left,  is  a piece  of  noble  and  inventive  grotesque,  a head  of  the 
lion-symbol  of  St.  Mark,  from  the  Veronese  Gothic;  the  other 


TIT.  GKOTESQrK  REXAISSAXOE. 


IGl 


is  a liead  introduced  as  a boss  on  the  foundation  of  the  Palazzo 
Corner  della  Eegina  at  Yenice,  utterly  devoid  of  invention, 
made  merely  monstrous  by  exaggerations  of  the  eyeballs  and 
cheeks,  and  generally  characteristic  of  that  late  Eenaissance 
grotesque  of  Venice,  with  which  we  are  at  present  more  im- 
mediately concerned.* 

§ Lxxii.  The  developement  of  that  grotesque  took  place 
under  diflferent  laws  from  those  w^hich  regulate  it  in  any  other 
European  city.  For,  great  as  we  have  seen  the  Byzantine 
mind  show  itself  to  be  in  other  directions,  it  was  marked  as 
that  of  a declining  nation  l>y  the  absence  of  tlie  grotesque  ele- 
ment; and,  owing  to  its  influence,  the  early  Venetian  Gothic 
remained  inferior  to  all  other  schools  in  this  particular  charac- 
ter. Nothing  can  well  be  more  wonderful  than  its  instant 
failure  in  any  attempt  at  the  representation  of  ludicrous  or 
fearful  images,  more  especially  when  it  is  compared  with  the 
magniflcent  grotesque  of  the  neighboring  city  of  Verona,  in 
which  tlie  Lombard  influence  had  full  sway.  Nor  was  it  until 
the  last  links  of  connexion  with  Constantinople  had  been  dis- 
solved, that  the  strength  of  the  Venetian  mind  could  manifest 
itself  in  this  direction.  But  it  had  then  a new  enemy  to 
encounter.  The  Renaissance  laws  altogether  checked  its  imag- 
ination in  architecture ; and  it  could  only  obtain  permission 
to  express  itself  by  starting  forth  in  the  work  of  the  Venetian 
painters,  filling  them  with  monkeys  and  dwarfs,  even  amidst 
the  most  serious  subjects,  and  leading  Veronese  and  Tintoret 
to  the  most  unexpected  and  wild  fantasies  of  form  and  color. 

§ LxxTir.  We  may  be  deeply  thankful  for  this  peculiar  re- 

* Note  especially,  in  connexion  with  what  was  advanced  in  Yol.  II. 
respecting  our  English  neatness  of  execution,  how  the  base  workman  has 
cut  the  lines  of  the  architecture  neatly  and  precisely  round  the  abominable 
head;  but  the  noble  workman  has  used  his  chisel  like  a painter’s  pencil, 
and  sketched  the  glory  with  a few  irregular  lines,  anything  rather  than 
circular;  and  struck  out  the  whole  head  in  the  same  frank  and  fearless  way, 
leaving  the  sharp  edges  of  the  stone  as  they  first  broke,  and  flinging  back 
the  crest  of  hair  from  the  forehead  with  half  a dozen  hammer-strokes, 
while  the  poor  wretch  who  did  the  other  was  half  a day  in  smoothing  its 
vapid  and  vennicular  curls. 


162 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


serve  of  tlie  Gotliic  grotesque  character  to  the  last  days  of 
Venice.  All  over  the  rest  of  Europe  it  had  been  strongest  in 
the  days  of  inij^erfect  art ; magnificently  powerful  throughout 
the  whole  of  the  thirteenth  century,  tamed  gradually  in  the 
fourteenth  and  fifteenth,  and  expiring  in  the  sixteenth  amidst 
anatomy  and  laws  of  art.  But  at  Venice,  it  had  not  been  re- 
ceived when  it  was  elsewhere  in  triumph,  and  it  fled  to  the 
lagoons  for  shelter  when  elsewhere  it  was  oppressed.  And  it 
was  arrayed  by  the  Venetian  painters  in  robes  of  state,  and 
advanced  by  them  to  such  honor  as  it  had  never  received  in  its 
days  of  widest  dominion  ; while,  in  return,  it  bestowed  upon 
their  pictures  that  fulness,  piquancy,  decision  of  parts,  and 
mosaic-like  intermingling  of  fancies,  alternately  brilliant  and 
sublime,  which  were  exactly  what  was  most  needed  for  the  de- 
velopement  of  their  unapproachable  color-power. 

§ Lxxiv.  Yet,  observe,  it  by  no  means  follows  that  because 
the  grotesque  does  not  appear  in  the  art  of  a nation,  the  sense 
of  it  does  not  exist  in  the  national  mind.  Except  in  the  form 
of  caricature,  it  is  hardly  traceable  in  the  English  work  of  the 
present  day ; but  the  minds  of  our  workmen  are  full  of  it,  if 
we  would  only  allow  them  to  give  it  shape.  They  express  it 
daily  in  gesture  and  gibe,  but  are  not  allowed  to  do  so  where 
it  would  be  useful.  In  like  manner,  though  the  Byzantine 
influence  repressed  it  in  the  early  Venetian  architecture,  it  was 
always  present  in  the  Venetian  mind,  and  showed  itself  in 
various  forms  of  national  custom  and  festival ; acted  grotesques, 
full  of  wit,  feeling,  and  good-humor.  The  ceremony  of  the 
hat  and  the  orange,  described  in  the  beginning  of  this  chapter, 
is  one  instance  out  of  multitudes.  Another,  more  rude,  and 
exceedingly  characteristic,  was  that  instituted  in  the  tw^elfth 
century  in  memorial  of  the  submission  of  Woldaric,  the  patri- 
arch  of  Aquileia,  who,  having  taken  up  arms  against  the 
patriarch  of  Grado,  and  being  defeated  and  taken  prisoner  by  the 
Venetians,  was  sentenced,  not  to  death,  but  to  send  every  year 
on  Fat  Thursday  ” sixty-two  large  loaves,  twelve  fat  pigs,  and 
a bull,  to  the  Doge ; the  bull  being  understood  to  represent  the 
patriarch,  and  the  twelve  pigs  his  clergy : and  the  ceremonies 


III.  GROTESQUE  REXATSSAXCE. 


1G3 


of  the  day  consisting  in  tlie  decapitation  of  these  representa- 
tives, and  a distribution  of  their  joints  among  the  senators ; 
together  with  a symbolic  record  of  the  attack  upon  Aquileia, 
by  the  erection  of  a wooden  castle  in  the  rooms  of  the  Ducal 
Palace,  which  the  Doge  and  the  Senate  attacked  and  demol- 
ished with  clubs.  As  long  as  the  Doge  and  the  Senate  were 
tmly  kingly  and  noble,  they  were  content  to  let  this  ceremony 
be  continued ; but  when  they  became  proud  and  selfish,  and 
were  destroying  both  themselves  and  the  state  by  their  luxury, 
they  found  it  inconsistent  with  their  dignity,  and  it  was  abol- 
ished, as  far  as  the  Senate  was  concerned,  in  1549. 

§ Lxxv.  By  these  and  other  similar  manifestations,  the  gro- 
tesque spirit  is  traceable  througli  all  the  strength  of  the  Vene- 
tian people.  But  again  : it  is  necessary  that  we  should  carefully 
distingiiisii  between  it  and  the  spirit  of  mere  levity.  I said, 
in  the  fifth  chapter,  that  the  Venetians  were  distinctively  a 
serious  people,  serious,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  sense  in  which  the 
English  are  a more  serious  people  than  the  French ; though 
the  habitual  intercourse  of  our  lower  classes  in  London  has  a 
tone  of  humor  in  it  wliich  I believe  is  untraceable  in  that  of 
the  Parisian  populace.  It  is  one  thing  to  indulge  in  playful 
rest,  and  another  to  be  devoted  to  the  pursuit  of  pleasure : and 
gaiety  of  heart  during  the  reaction  after  hard  labor,  and  quick- 
ened by  satisfaction  in  the  accomplished  duty  or  perfected 
result,  is  altogether  compatible  with,  nay,  even  in  some  sort 
arises  naturally  out  of,  a deep  internal  seriousness  of  disposi- 
tion ; this  latter  being  exactly  the  condition  of  mind  which, 
as  we  have  seen,  leads  to  the  richest  developements  of  the  play- 
ful gi’otesque  ; while,  on  the  contrary,  the  continual  pursuit  of 
pleasure  deprives  the  soul  of  all  alacrity  and  elasticity,  and 
leaves  it  incapable  of  happy  jesting,  capable  only  of  that  which 
is  bitter,  base,  and  foolish.  Thus,  throughout  the  whole  of  the 
early  career  of  the  Venetians,  though  there  is  much  jesting, 
there  is  no  levity ; on  the  contrary  there  is  an  intense  earnest- 
ness both  in  their  pursuit  of  commercial  and  political  successes, 


The  decree  is  quoted  by  Mutinelli,  lib.  i.  p.  46. 


164 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


and  in  their  devotion  to  religion,*  wliicli  led  gradually  to  the 
formation  of  that  highly  wrought  mingling  of  immovable  reso- 
lution with  secret  thoughtfulness,  which  so  strangely,  some- 
times so  darkly,  distinguishes  the  Venetian  character  at  the 
time  of  their  highest  power,  when  the  seriousness  was  left,  but 
the  conscientiousness  destroyed.  And  if  there  be  any  one  sign 
by  which  the  Venetian  countenance,  as  it  is  recorded  for  us,  to 
the  very  life,  by  a school  of  portraiture  which  has  never  been 
equalled  (chiefly  because  no  portraiture  ever  had  subjects  so 
noble), — I say,  if  there  be  one  thing  more  notable  than  another 
in  the  Venetian  features,  it  is  this  deep  pensiveness  and  solem- 
nity. In  other  districts  of  Italy,  the  dignity  of  the  heads 
which  occur  in  the  inost  celebrated  compositions  is  clearly 
owing  to  the  feeling  of  the  painter.  He  has  visibly  raised  or 
idealized  his  models,  and  appears  always  to  be  veiling  the  faults 
or  failings  of  the  human  nature  around  him,  so  that  the  best 
of  his  work  is  that  which  has  most  perfectly  taken  the  color  of 
his  own  mind ; and  the  least  impressive,  if  not  the  least  valua- 
ble, that  which  appears  to  have  been  unaffected  and  unmodified 
portraiture.  But  at  Venice,  all  is  exactly  the  reverse  of  this. 
The  tone  of  mind  in  the  painter  appears  often  in  some  degree 
frivolous  or  sensual ; delighting  in  costume,  in  domestic  and 
grotesque  incident,  and  in  studies  of  the  naked  form.  But 
the  moment  he  gives  himself  definitely  to  portraiture,  all  is 
noble  and  grave ; the  more  literally  true  his  work,  the  more 
majestic ; and  the  same  artist  who  will  produce  little  beyond 
what  is  commonplace  in  painting  a Madonna  or  an  apostle,  vdll 
rise  into  unapproachable  sublimity  when  his  subject  is  a mem- 
ber of  the  Forty,  or  a Master  of  the  Mint. 

Such,  then,  were  the  general  tone  and  progress  of  the 
Venetian  mind,  up  to  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
First,  serious,  religious,  and  sincere ; then,  though  serious  still, 
comparatively  deprived  of  conscientiousness,  and  apt  to  decline 
into  stern  and  subtle  policy : in  the  first  case,  the  spirit  of  the 
noble  grotesque  not  showing  itself  in  art  at  all,  but  only  in 


*See  Appendix  9. 


III.  GROTESQL'E  REXAISSAN-CE. 


1G5 


Speech  and  action;  in  the  second  case,  developing  itself  in 
painting,  through  accessories  and  vivacities  of  composition, 
while  perfect  dignity  was  always  preserved  in  portraiture.  A 
third  phase  rapidly  developed  itself. 

§ Lxxvi.  Once  more,  and  for  the  last  time,  let  me  refer  the 
reader  to  the  important  epoch  of  the  death  of  the  Doge 
Tomaso  Mocenigo  in  1423,  long  ago  indicated  as  the  commence- 
ment of  the  decline  of  the  Venetian  power.  That  commence- 
ment is  marked,  not  merely  by  the  words  of  the  dying  Prince, 
but  by  a great  and  clearly  legible  sign.  It  is  recorded,  that 
on  the  accession  of  his  successor,  Foscari,  to  the  throne,  ‘‘Si 
FESTEGGIO  DALLA  CITTA  UNO  ANNO  INTEKO  f’  The  city  kept 
festival  for  a whole  year.”  Venice  had  in  her  childhood  sown, 
in  tears,  the  harvest  she  was  to  reap  in  rejoicing.  She  now 
sowed  in  laughter  the  seeds  of  death. 

Thenceforward,  year  after  year,  the  nation  drank  with 
deeper  thirst  from  the  fountains  of  forbidden  pleasure,  and 
dug  for  springs,  hitherto  unknown,  in  the  dark  places  of  the 
earth.  In  the  ingenuity  of  indulgence,  in  the  varieties  of 
vanity,  Venice  surpassed  the  cities  of  Christendom,  as  of  old 
she  surpassed  them  in  fortitude  and  devotion ; and  as  once  the 
powers  of  Europe  stood  before  her  judgment-seat,  to  receive 
the  decisions  of  her  justice,  so  now  the  youth  of  Europe  assem- 
bled in  the  halls  of  her  luxury,  to  learn  from  her  the  arts  of 
delight. 

It  is  as  needless,  as  it  is  painful,  to  trace  the  steps  of  her 
final  ruin.  That  ancient  curse  was  upon  hei*,  the  curse  of  the 
cities  of  the  plain,  Pride,  fulness  of  bread,  and  abundance  of 
idleness.”  By  the  inner  burning  of  her  own  passions,  as  fatal 
as  the  fiery  reign  of  Gomorrah,  she  was  consumed  from  her 
place  among  the  nations ; and  her  ashes  are  choking  the  chan- 
nels of  the  dead  salt  sea. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 


CONCLUSION. 

§ I.  I FEAR  this  chapter  will  be  a rambling  one,  for  it  must 
be  a kind  of  supplement  to  the  preceding  pages,  and  a general 
recapitulation  of  the  things  I have  too  imperfectly  and  feebly 
said. 

The  grotesques  of  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centu- 
ries, tlie  nature  of  which  we  examined  in  the  last  chapter,  close 
the  career  of  the  architecture  of  Europe.  They  were  the  last 
evidences  of  any  feeling  consistent  with  itself,  and  capable  of 
directing  the  efforts  of  the  builder  to  the  formation  of  anything 
worthy  the  name  of  a style  or  school.  From  that  time  to  this, 
no  resuscitation  of  energy  has  taken  place,  nor  does  any  for  the 
present  appear  possible.  How  long  this  impossibility  may  last, 
and  in  what  direction  with  regard  to  art  in  general,  as  well  as 
to  our  lifeless  architecture,  our  immediate  efforts  may  most 
profitably  be  directed,  are  the  questions  I w^ould  endeavor 
briefly  to  consider  in  the  present  chapter. 

§ IT.  That  modern  science,  wdth  all  its  additions  to  the  com- 
forts of  life,  and  to  the  fields  of  rational  contemplation,  has 
placed  the  existing  races  of  mankind  on  a higher  platform  than 
any  that  preceded  them,  none  can  doubt  for  an  instant ; and  I 
believe  the  position  in  which  w^e  find  ourselves  is  somewhat 
analogous  to  that  of  thoughtful  and  laborious  youth  succeeding 
a restless  and  heedless  infancy.  Not  long  ago,  it  was  said  to 
me  by  one  of  the  masters  of  modern  science  : When  men  in- 

vented the  locomotive,  the  child  was  learning  to  go ; when 
they  invented  the  telegraph,  it  was  learning  to  speak.”  He 
looked  forw^ard  to  the  manhood  of  mankind,  as  assuredly  the 
nobler  in  proportion  to  the  slowness  of  its  developement.  What 


IV.  conclusions’. 


1G7 


might  not  be  exj)ected  from  the  prime  and  middle  strength  of 
tlie  order  of  existence  whose  infancy  liad  lasted  six  thousand 
years  ? And,  indeed,  I thiidc  this  the  truest,  as  well  as  the 
most  cheering,  view  that  we  can  take  of  the  world's  history. 
Little  progress  has  been  made  as  yet.  Base  war,  lying  policy, 
thoughtless  cruelty,  senseless  improvidence, — all  things  which, 
in  nations,  are  analogous  to  the  petulance,  cunning,  impatience, 
and  carelessness  of  infancy, — have  been,  up  to  this  hour,  as 
characteristic  of  mankind  as  they  were  in  the  earliest  periods ; 
so  that  we  must  either  be  driven  to  doubt  of  human  progress 
at  all,  or  look  upon  it  as  in  its  very  earliest  stage.  Whether 
the  opportunity  is  to  be  permitted  us  to  redeem  the  hours  that 
we  have  lost  ; whether  lie,  in  whose  sight  a thousand  years 
are  as  one  day,  has  appointed  us  to  be  tried  by  the  continued 
possession  of  the  strange  powers  with  which  He  has  lately  en- 
dowed us  ; or  whether  the  periods  of  childhood  and  of  proba- 
tion are  to  cease  together,  and  the  youth  of  mankind  is  to  be 
one  which  shall  prevail  over  death,  and  bloom  for  ever  in  the 
midst  of  a new  heaven  and  a new  earth,  are  questions  with 
which  we  have  no  concern.  It  is  indeed  right  that  we  should 
look  for,  and  hasten,  so  far  as  in  us  lies,  the  coming  of  the  Day 
of  God ; but  not  that  we  should  check  any  human  etforts  by 
anticipations  of  its  approach.  We  shall  hasten  it  best  by  en- 
deavoring to  work  out  the  tasks  that  are  appointed  for  us  here ; 
and,  therefore,  reasoning  as  if  the  world  were  to  continue  un- 
der its  existing  dispensation,  and  the  powers  which  have  just 
been  granted  to  us  were  to  be  continued  through  myriads  of 
future  ages. 

§ III.  It  seems  to  me,  then,  that  the  whole  human  ]-ace,  so 
far  as  their  own  reason  can  be  trusted,  may  at  present  be  re- 
garded as  just  emergent  from  childhood ; and  beginning  for 
the  first  time  to  feel  their  strength,  to  stretch  their  limbs,  and 
explore  the  creation  around  them.  If  we  consider  that,  till 
within  the  last  fifty  years,  the  nature  of  the  ground  we  tread 
on,  of  the  air  we  breathe,  and  of  the  light  by  which  we  see, 
were  not  so  much  as  conjecturally  conceived  by  us ; that  the 
duration  of  the  globe,  and  the  races  of  animal  life  by  which  it 


168 


THIKD  PERIOD. 


was  inliabited,  are  just  beginning  to  be  apprehended ; and  that 
the  scope  of  the  magnificent  science  which  has  revealed  them, 
is  as  yet  so  little  received  by  the  jmblic  mind,  that  presumption 
and  ignorance  are  still  permitted  to  raise  their  voices  against  it 
unrebuked  ; that  j)crfect  veracity  in  the  representation  of  gen- 
eral nature  by  art  has  never  been  attempted  until  the  present 
day,  and  has  in  the  jii’esent  day  been  resisted  with  all  the  en- 
ergy of  the  jiopular  voice  that  the  simplest  problems  of  so- 
cial science  are  yet  so  little  understood,  as  that  doctrines  of 
liberty  and  equality  can  be  ojienly  preached,  and  so  successfully 
as  to  affect  the  whole  body  of  the  civilized  world  with  appar- 
ently incurable  disease ; that  the  first  principles  of  commerce 
were  acknowledged  by  the  English  Parliament  only  a few 
months  ago,  in  its  free  trade  measures',  and  are  still  so  little 
understood  by  the  million,  that  no  nation  dares  fo  abolish  its 
custom-houses  ; f that  the  simplest  principles  of  policy  are  still 
not  so  much  as  stated,  far  less  received,  and  that  civilized  na' 
tions  persist  in  the  belief  that  the  subtlety  and  dishonesty  which 
they  know  to  be  ruinous  in  dealings  between  man  and  man,  are 
serviceable  in  dealings  between  multitude  and  multitude;  fi- 
nally, that  the  scope  of  the  Christian  religion,  which  we  have 
been  taught  for  two  thousand  years,  is  still  so  little  conceived 
by  us,  that  we  suppose  the  laws  of  charity  and  of  self-sacrifice 
bear  upon  individuals  in  all  their  social  relations,  and  yet  do 
not  bear  upon  nations  in  any  of  their  political  relations  ; — when, 
I say,  we  thus  review  the  depth  of  simplicity  in  which  the  hu- 


* In  the  works  of  Turner  and  the  Pre-Raphaelites, 
f Observe,  I speak  of  these  various  principles  as  self-evident,  only  under 
the  present  circumstances  of  the  world,  not  as  if  they  had  always  been  so; 
and  I call  them  now  self-evident,  not  merely  because  they  seem  so  to  my- 
self, but  because  they  are  felt  to  be  so  likewise  by  all  the  men  in  whom  I 
place  most  trust.  But  granting  that  they  are  not  so,  then  their  very  dis- 
putability  proves  the  state  of  infancy  above  alleged,  as  characteristic  of  the 
world.  For  I do  not  suppose  that  any  Christian  reader  will  doubt  the  first 
great  truth,  that  whatever  facts  or  laws  are  important  to  mankind,  God  has 
made  ascertainable  by  mankind ; and  that  as  the  decision  of  all  these  ques- 
tions is  of  vital  importance  to  the  race,  that  decision  must  have  been  long 
ago  arrived  at,  iiidess  they  were  still  in  a state  of  childhood. 


IV.  CONCLUSION. 


1G9 


man  race  are  still  plunged  with  respect  to  all  that  it  most  pro- 
foundly  concerns  them  to  know,  and  which  might,  by  them, 
with  most  ease  have  been  ascertained,  we  can  hardly  determine 
how  far  back  on  the  narrow  path  of  human  progress  we  ought 
to  place  the  generation  to  which  we  belong,  how  far  the  swad- 
dling clothes  are  unwound  from  us,  and  childish  things  begin- 
ning to  be  put  away. 

On  the  other  hand,  a j)Ower  of  obtaining  veracity  in  the 
representation  of  material  and  tangible  things,  which,  within 
certain  limits  and  conditions,  is  unim23eachable,  has  now  been 
placed  ill  the  hands  of  all  men,*  almost  without  labor.  The 
foundation  of  every  natural  science  is  now  at  last  firmly  laid, 
not  a day  passing  without  some  addition  of  buttress  and  jiinna- 
cle  to  their  already  magnificent  fabric.  Social  theorems,  if 
fiercely  agitated,  are  therefore  the  more  likely  to  be  at  last  de- 
termined, so  that  they  never  can  be  matters  of  question  more. 
Human  life  has  been  in  some  sense  prolonged  by  the  increased 
powers  of  locomotion,  and  an  almost  limitless  power  of  con- 
verse. Finally,  there  is  hardly  any  serious  mind  in  Europe  but 
is  occujiied,  more  or  less,  in  the  investigation  of  the  questions 
which  have  so  long  paralyzed  the  strength  of  religious  feeling, 
and  shortened  the  dominion  of  religious  faith.  And  we  may 
therefore  at  least  look  upon  ourselves  as  so  far  in  a definite 
state  of  progress,  as  to  justify  our  caution  in  guarding  against 
the  dangers  incident  to  every  period  of  change,  and  especially 
to  that  from  childhood  into  youth. 

§ IV.  Those  dangers  appear,  in  the  main,  to  be  twofold  ; 
consisting  j)artly  in  the  pride  of  vain  knowledge,  partly  in  the 
pursuit  of  vain  pleasure.  A few  points  are  still  to  be  noticed 
with  respect  to  each  of  these  heads. 

* I intended  to  have  given  a sketch  in  this  place  (above  referred  to)  of 
the  probable  results  of  the  daguerreotype  and  calotype  within  the  next  few 
years,  in  modifying  the  application  of  the  engraver’s  art,  but  I have  not 
had  time  to  complete  the  experiments  necessary  to  enable  me  to  speak  with 
certainty.  Of  one  thing,  however,  I have  little  doubt,  that  an  infinite  ser- 
vice will  soon  be  done  to  a large  body  of  our  engravers;  namely,  the  mak- 
ing them  draiighlsmen  (In  black  and  white)  on  paper  instead  of  steel 


170 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


Enough,  it  might  he  thought,  had  been  said  already,  touch- 
ing the  pride  of  knowledge  ; but  I have  not  yet  applied  the 
principles,  at  which  we  arrived  in  the  third  chapter,  to  the 
practical  questions  of  modern  art.  And  I thiidv  those  princb 
pies,  together  with  what  were  deduced  from  the  consideration 
of  the  nature  of  Gothic  in  the  second  volume,  so  necessary  and 
Autal,  not  only  with  respect  to  the  progress  of  art,  but  even  to 
the  happiness  of  society,  that  I will  rather  run  the  risk  of 
tediousness  than  of  deficiency,  in  their  illustration  and  en- 
forcement. 

In  examining  the  nature  of  Gothic,  we  concluded  that  one 
of  the  chief  elements  of  power  in  that,  and  in  all  good  archi- 
tecture, was  the  acceptance  of  uncultivated  and  rude  energy  in 
the  workman.  In  examining  the  nature  of  Eenaissance,  we 
concluded  that  its  chief  element  of  weakness  was  that  pride  of 
knowledge  which  not  only  prevented  all  rudeness  in  expre'ssion, 
but  gradually  quenched  all  energy  which  could  only  be  rudely 
expressed  ; nor  only  so,  but,  for  the  motive  and  matter  of  the 
wmrk  itself,  preferred  science  to  emotion,  and  experience  to 
perception. 

§ V.  The  modern  mind  differs  from  the  Renaissance  mind 
in  that  its  learning  is  more  substantial  and  extended,  and  its 
temper  more  humble  ; but  its  errors,  with  respect  to  the  culti- 
vation of  art,  are  precisely  the  same, — nay,  as  far  as  regards 
execution,  even  more  aggravated.  We  require,  at  present, 
from  our  general  workmen,  more  perfect  finish  than  was  de- 
manded in  the  most  skilful  Renaissance  periods,  except  in  their 
very  finest  productions;  and  our  leading  principles  in  teaching, 
and  in  the  patronage  which  necessarily  gives  tone  to  teaching, 
are,  that  the  goodness  of  w-ork  consists  primarily  in  firmness  of 
handling  and  accuracy  of  science,  that  is  to  say,  in  hand-work 
and  head-work ; whereas  heart-work,  which  is  the  one  work  we 
want,  is  not  only  independent  of  both,  but  often,  in  great  de- 
gree, inconsistent  with  either.  , 

§ VI.  Here,  therefore,  let  me  finally  and  firmly  enunciate 
the  great  principle  to  wliicli  all  that  has  hitherto  been  stated  is 
siibsei’vient : — that  art  is  valuable  or  otherwise,  only  ajs  it  ex- 


lY.  COKCLUSIOIS'. 


171 


presses  the  personality,  activity,  and  living  perception  of  a good 
and  great  human  soul ; that  it  may  express  and  contain  this 
with  little  help  from  execution,  and  less  from  science  ; and  that 
if  it  have  not  this,  if  it  show  not  the  vigor,  perception,  and  in- 
vention of  a mighty  human  spirit,  it  is  worthless.  Worthless, 
I mean,  as  art  / it  may  be  precious  in  some  other  way,  but,  as 
art,  it  is  nugatory.  Once  let  this  be  well  understood  among  us, 
and  magnificent  consequences  will  soon  follow.  Let  me  repeat 
it  in  other  terms,  so  that  I may  not  be  misunderstood.  All  art 
is  great,  and  good,  and  true,  only  so  far  as  it  is  distinctively  the 
work  of  manhood  in  its  entire  and  highest  sense ; that  is  to  say, 
not  the  work  of  limbs  and  fingers,  but  of  the  soul,  aided,  ac- 
cording to  her  necessities,  by  the  inferior  powers ; and  there- 
fore distinguished  in  essence  from  all  products  of  those  inferior 
powers  unhelped  by  the  soul.  For  as  a jfiiotograph  is  not  a 
work  of  art,  though  it  requires  certain  delicate  manipulations 
of  paper  and  acid,  and  subtle  calculations  of  time,  in  order  to 
bring  out  a good  result ; so,  neither  would  a drawing  lihe  a 
photograph,  made  directly  from  nature,  be  a work  of  art,  al- 
though it  w^ould  imply  many  delicate  manipulations  of  the  pen- 
cil and  subtle  calculations  of  effects  of  color  and  shade.  It  is 
no  more  art*  to  manipulate  a camel’s  hair  pencil,  than  to  ma- 
nipulate a china  tray  and  a glass  vial.  It  is  no  more  art  to  lay 
on-  color  delicately,  than  to  lay  on  acid  delicately.  It  is  no 
more  art  to  use  the  cornea  and  retina  for  the  reception  of  an 
image,  than  to  use  a lens  and  a piece  of  silvered  paper.  But 
the  moment  that  inner  part  of  the  man,  or  rather  that  entire 
and  only  being  of  the  man,  of  wliicli  cornea  and  retina,  fingers 
and  hands,  pencils  and  colors,  are  all  the  mere  servants  and  in- 
struments ; t that  manhood  which  has  light  in  itself,  though  the 

* I mean  art  in  its  highest  sense.  All  that  men  do  ingeniously  is  art,  in 
one  sense.  In  fact,  we  want  a definition  of  the  word  ‘'art”  much  more 
accurate  than  any  in  our  minds  at  present.  For,  strictly  s^jeaking,  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  “fine”  or  “ high”  art.  All  art  is  a low  and  common  thing, 
and  what  we  indeed  respect  is  not  art  at  all,  but  inHtinGt  or  inKplration  ex- 
pressed by  the  help  of  art. 

i '-'Socrates.  This,  then,  was  what  I asked  you;  whether  that  which 


172 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


eyeball  be  sightless,  and  can  gain  in  strength  when  the  hand 
and  the  foot  are  hewn  off  and  cast  into  the  fire  ; the  moment 
this  part  of  the  man  stands  forth  with  its  solemn  Behold,  it  is 
I,’’  then  the  work  becomes  art  indeed,  perfect  in  honor,  price- 
less in  value,  boundless  in  power. 

§ VII.  Yet  observe,  I do  not  mean  to  speak  of  the  body  and 
soul  as  separable.  The  man  is  made  up  of  both : they  are  to 
be  raised  and  glorified  together,  and  all  art  is  an  expression  of 
the  one,  by  and  through  the  other.  All  that  I would  insist 
upon  is,  the  necessity  of  the  whole  man  being  in  his  work.;  the 
body  must  be  in  it.  Hands  and  habits  must  be  in  it,  wdiether 
we  will  or  not ; but  the  nobler  part  of  the  man  may  often  not 
be  in  it.  And  that  nobler  part  acts  principally  in  love,  rever- 
ence, and  admiration,  together  with  those  conditions  of  thought 
which  arise  out  of  them.  For  we  usually  fall  into  much  error 
by  considering  the  intellectual  powers  as  having  dignity  in 
themselves,  and  separable  from  the  heart ; whereas  the  truth 
is,  that  the  intellect  becomes  noble  and  ignoble  according  to  the 
food  we  give  it,  and  the  kind  of  subjects  with  which  it  is  con- 
versant. It  is  not  the  reasoning  power  which,  of  itself,  is  no- 

puts  anything  else  to  service,  and  the  thing  which  is  put  to  service  by  it,  are 
always  two  different  things? 

AlciUades.  I think  so. 

Socrates.  What  shall  we  then  say  of  the  leather-cutter?  Does  he  cut  his 
leather  with  his  instruments  only,  or  with  his  hands  also? 

AlciUades.  With  his  hands  also. 

Socrates.  Does  he  not  use  his  eyes  as  well  as  his  hands? 

AlciUades.  Yes. 

Socrates.  And  we  agreed  that  the  thing  which  uses  and  the  thing  which 
is  used,  were  different  things? 

AlciUades.  Yes. 

Socrates.  Then  the  leather -cutter  is  not  the  same  thing  as  his  eyes  or 
hands? 

AlciUades.  So  it  appears. 

Socrates.  Does  not,  then,  man  make  use  of  his  whole  body? 

Alcibiades.  Assuredly. 

Socrates.  Then  the  man  is  not  the  same  thing  as  his  body? 

AlciUades.  It  seems  so. 

Socrates.  What,  then,  is  the  man? 

xilcihiades.  I know  not,”  Plato,  Alcibiades  I. 


IV.  COKCLUSIOK. 


173 


ble,  blit  tlie  reasoning  power  occupied  with  its  proper  objects. 
Half  of  the  mistakes  of  metaphysicians  have  arisen  from  their 
not  observing  this ; namely,  that  the  intellect,  going  through 
the  same  processes,  is  yet  mean  or  noble  according  to  the  mat- 
ter it  deals  with,  and  w^astes  itself  away  in  mere  rotatory  mo- 
tion, if  it  be  set  to  grind  straws  and  dust.  If  we  reason  only 
respecting  words,  or  lines,  or  any  trifling  and  finite  things,  the 
reason  becomes  a contemptible  faculty  ; but  reason  employed  on 
holy  and  infinite  things,  becomes  herself  holy  and  infinite.  So 
that,  by  work  of  the  soul,  I mean  the  reader  always  to  under- 
stand the  work  of  the  entire  immortal  creature,  proceeding  from 
a quick,  perceptive,  and  eager  heart,  perfected  by  the  intellect, 
and  finally  dealt  with  by  the  hands,  under  the  direct  guidance 
of  these  higher  powers. 

§ VIII.  And  now  observe,  the  first  important  consequence  of 
our  fully  understanding  this  preeminence  of  the  soul,  will  be 
the  due  understanding  of  that  subordination  of  knowledge  re- 
specting which  so  much  has  already  been  said.  For  it  must 
be  felt  at  once,  that  the  increase  of  knowledge,  merely  as  such, 
does  not  make  the  soul  larger  or  smaller  ; that,  in  the  sight  of 
God,  all  the  knowledge  man  can  gain  is  as  nothing : but  that 
the  soul,  for  which  the  greai  scheme  of  redemption  was  laid,  be 
it  ignorant  or  be  it  wise,  is  all  in  all ; and  in  the  activity, 
strength,  health,  and  well-being  of  this  soul,  lies  the  main  dif- 
ference, in  His  sight,  between  one  man  and  another.  And 
that  which  is  all  in  all  in  God’s  estimate  is  also,  be  assured,  all 
in  all  in  man’s  labor  ; and  to  have  the  heart  open,  and  the  eyes 
clear,  and  the  emotions  and  thoughts  warm  and  quick,  and  not 
the  knowing  of  this  or  the  other  fact,  is  the  state  needed  for 
all  mighty  doing  in  this  world.  And  therefore  finally,  for  this, 
the  weightiest  of  all  reasons,  let  us  take  no  jiride  in  our  knowl- 
edge. We  may,  in  a certain  sense,  be  proud  of  being  immortal ; 
we  may  be  proud  of  being  God’s  children  ; we  may  be  proud  of 
loving,  thinking,  seeing,  and  of  all  that  we  are  by  no  human 
teaching : but  not  of  what  we  have  been  taught  by  rote  ; not  of 
the  ballast  and  freight  of  the  ship  of  the  spirit,  but  only  of  its 
pilotage,  witliout  which  all  the  freiglit  will  only  sink  it  faster, 


174 


THIKD  PERIOD. 


and  strew  the  sea  more  richly  with  its  ruin.  There  is  not 
at  this  moment  a youth  of  twenty,  having  received  what  we 
moderns  ridiculously  call  education,  but  he  knows  more  of 
everything,  except  the  soul,  than  Plato  or  St.  Paul  did  ; but 
he  is  not  for  that  reason  a greater  man,  or  fitter  for  his  work, 
or  more  fit  to  be  heard  by  others,  than  Plato  or  St.  Paul. 
There  is  not  at  this  moment  a junior  student  in  our  schools  of 
painting,  who  does  not  know  fifty  times  as  much  about  the 
art  as  Giotto  did ; but  he  is  not  for  that  reason  greater  than' 
Giotto ; no,  nor  his  work  better,  nor  fitter  for  our  beholding. 
Let  him  go  on  to  know  all  that  the  human  intellect  can  dis- 
cover and  contain  in  the  term  of  a long  life,  and  he  will  not 
be  one  inch,  one  line,  nearer  to  Giotto’s  feet.  But  let  him 
leave  his  academy  benches,  and,  innocently,  as  one  knowing 
nothing,  go  out  into  the  highways  and  hedges,  and  there  re- 
joice with  them  that  rejoice,  and  weep  with  them  that  weep  ; 
and  in  tlie  next  world,  among  the  companies  of  the  great  and 
good,  Giotto  will  give  his  hand  to  him,  and  lead  him  into  their 
white  circle,  and  say,  This  is  our  brother.” 

§ IX.  And  the  second  important  consequence  of  our  feel- 
ing the  soul’s  preeminence  will  be  our  understanding  the  soul’s 
language,  however  broken,  or  low,  or  feeble,  or  obscure  in  its 
words  ; and  chiefly  that  great  symbolic  language  of  past  ages, 
which  has  now  so  long  been  unspoken.  It  is  strange  that  the 
same  cold  and  formal  spirit  which  the  Renaissance  teaching 
has  raised  amongst  us,  should  be  equally  dead  to  the  languages 
of  imitation  and  of  symbolism;  and  should  at  once  disdain  the 
faithful  rendering  of  real  nature  by  the  modern  school  of  the 
Pre-Raphaelites,  and  the  symbolic  rendering  of  imagined  nature 
in  the  work  of  the  thirteenth  century.  But  so  it  is  ; and  we 
find  the  same  body  of  modern  artists  rejecting  Pre-Raphaelit- 
ism  because  it  is  not  ideal ! and  thirteenth  century  work,  be- 
cause it  is  not  real ! — their  own  practice  being  at  once  false 
and  un-ideal,  and  therefore  equally  opposed  to  both. 

§ X.  It  is  therefore,  at  this  juncture,  of  much  imjDortance 
to  mark  for  the  reader  the  exact  relation  of  liealthy  sym- 
bolisin  ciud  of  healthy  imitation  ; and,  in  order  to  do  so^  let  us 


IV.  COXCLUSIOX. 


irs 


return  to  one  of  our  Venetian  examples  of  symbolic  art,  to  the 
central  cupola  of  St.  Mark’s.  On  that  cupola,  as  has  been 
already  stated,  there  is  a mosaic  representing,  the  Apostles  on 
the  Mount  of  Olives,  with  an  olive-tree  separating  each  from 
the  other;  and  we  shall  easily  arrive  at  our  purpose,  by  com- 
paring the  means  which  would  have  been  adopted  by  a modern 
artist  bred  in  the  Renaissance  schools, — that  is  to  say,  under 
the  influence  of  Claude  and  Poussin,  and  of  the  common  teach- 
ing of  the  j)resent  day, — with  those  adopted  by  the  Byzantine 
inosaicist  to  express  the  nature  of  these  trees. 

§ XI.  The  reader  is  doubtless  aware  that  the  olive  is  one  of 
the  most  characteristic  and  beautiful  features  of  all  Southern 
scenery.  On  the  slopes  of  the  northern  Apennines,  olives  are 
the  usual  forest  timber ; the  whole  of  the  Val  d’Arno  is  wooded 
with  them,  every  one  of  its  gardens  is  filled  with  them,  and 
they  grow  in  orchard-like  ranks  out  of  its  fields  of  maize,  or 
corn,  or  vine ; so  that  it  is  physically  impossible,  in  most  parts 
of  the  neighborhood  of  Florence,  Pistoja,  Lucca,  or  Pisa,  to 
choose  any  site  of  landscape  which  shall  not  owe  its  leading 
character  to  the  foliage  of  these  trees.  What  the  elm  and  oak 
are  to  England,  the  olive  is  to  Italy ; nay,  more  than  this,  its 
presence  is  so  constant,  that,  in  the  case  of  at  least  four  fifths 
of  the  drawings  made  by  any  artist  in  Xorth  Italy,  he  must 
have  been  somewhat  impeded  by  branches  of  olive  coming  be- 
tween him  and  the  landscape.  Its  classical  associations  double 
its  importance  in  GVeece ; and  in  the  Holy  Land  the  remem- 
brances connected  with  it  are  of  course  more  touching  than 
can  ever  belong  to  any  other  tree  of  the  field.  How,  for  many 
years  back,  at  least  one  third  out  of  all  the  landscapes  painted 
by  English  artists  have  been  chosen  from  Italian  scenery ; 
sketches  in  Greece  and  in  the  Holy  Land  have  become  as  com- 
mon as  sketches  on  Hampstead  Heath  ; our  galleries  also  are 
full  of  sacred  subjects,  in  which,  if  any  background  be  intro- 
duced at  all,  the  foliage  of  the  olive  ought  to  have  been  a 
prominent  feature. 

And  here  I challenge  the  untravelled  English  reader  to  tell 
me  what  an  olive-tree  is  like  ? 


170 


Timu)  PEKIOI). 


§ xir.  1 know  lie  cannot  answer  my  clialleiige.  He  lias  no 
more  idea  of  an  olive-tree  than  if  olives  grew  only  in  the  fixed 
stars.  Let  him  meditate  a little  on  this  one  fact,  and  consider 
its  strangeness,  and  what  a wilful  and  constant  closing  of  the 
eyes  to  the  most  important  truths  it  indicates  on  the  part  of 
the  modern  artist.  Observe,  a want  of  percejition,  not  of  sci- 
ence. I do  not  want  painters  to  tell  me  any  scientific  facts 
about  olive-trees.  But  it  had  been  well  for  them  to  have  felt 
and  seen  the  olive-tree ; to  have  loved  it  for  Christ’s  sake, 
partly  also  for  the  helmed  Wisdom’s  sake  which  was  to  the 
heathen  in  some  sort  as  that  nobler  Wisdom  which  stood  at 
God’s  right  hand,  when  lie  founded  the  earth  and  established 
the  heavens.  To  have  loved  it,  even  to  the  hoary  dimness  of 
its  delicate  foliage,  subdued  and  faint  of  hue,  as  if  the  ashes  of 
the  Gethsemane  agony  had  been  cast  upon  it  for  ever ; and  to 
have  traced,  line  by  line,  the  gnarled  writhing  of  its  intricate 
branches,  and  the  pointed  fretwork  of  its  light  and  narrow 
leaves,  inlaid  on  the  blue  field  of  the  sky,  and  the  small  rosy- 
white  stars  of  its  spring  blossoming,  and  the  beads  of  sable 
fruit  scattered  by  autumn  along  its  topmost  boughs — the  right, 
in  Israel,  of  the  stranger,  the  fatherless,  and  the  widow, — and, 
more  than  all,  the  softness  of  the  mantle,  silver  grey,  and  tender 
like  the  down  on  a bird’s  breast,  with  which,  far  away,  it  veils 
the  undulation  of  the  mountains ; — these  it  had  been  well  for 
them  to  have  seen  and  drawn,  whatever  they  had  left  unstudied 
in  the  gallery. 

§ XIII.  And  if  the  reader  would  know  the  reason  why  this 
has  not  been  done  (it  is  one  instance  only  out  of  the  myriads 
wdiich  might  be  given  of  sightlessness  in  modern  art),  and  will 
ask  the  artists  themselves,  he  will  be  informed  of  another  of 
the  marvellous  contradictions  and  inconsistencies  in  the  base 
Benaissance  art ; for  it  will  be  answered  him,  that  it  is  not 
right,  nor  according  to  law,  to  draw  trees  so  that  one  should  be 
known  from  another,  but  that  trees  ought  to  be  generalized 
into  a universal  idea  of  a tree  : that  is  to  say,  that  the  very 
school  which  carries  its  science  in  the  representation  of  man 
down  to  the  dissection  of  the  most  minute  muscle,  refuseis  so 


IV.  CONCLUSION. 


177 


mucli  science  to  tlie  drawing  of  a tree  as  shall  distinguish  one 
species  from  another ; and  also,  while  it  attends  to  logic,  and 
rhetoric,  and  perspective,  and  atmosphere,  and  every  other  cir- 
cumstance which  is  trivial,  verbal,  external,  or  accidental,  in 
what  it  either  says  or  sees,  it  will  not  attend  to  what  is  essen- 
tial and  substantial, — being  intensely  solicitous,  for  instance,  if 
it  draws  two  trees,  one  behind  the  other,  that  the  farthest  off 
shall  be  as  much  smaller  as  mathematics  show  that  it  should 
be,  but  totally  unsolicitous  to  show,  what  to  the  spectator  is  a 
far  more  important  matter,  whether  it  is  an  apple  or  an  orange- 
tree. 

§ XIV.  This,  however,  is  not  to  our  immediate  purpose.  Let 
it  be  granted  that  an  idea  of  an  olive-tree  is  indeed  to  be  given 
us  in  a special  manner ; how,  and  by  what  language,  this  idea 
is  to  be  conveyed,  are  questions  on  which  we  shall  find  the 
world  of  artists  again  divided ; and  it  was  this  division  which 
I wished  esj>ecially  to  illustrate  l)y  reference  to  the  mosaics  of 
St.  Mark’s. 

Now  the  main  characteristics  of  an  olive-tree  are  these.  It 
has  sharp  and  slender  leaves  of  a greyish  green,  nearly  grey 
on  the  under  surface,  and  resembling,  but  somewhat  smaller 
than,  those  of  our  common  willow.  Its  fruit,  when  ripe,  is 
black  and  lustrous ; but  of  course  so  small,  that,  unless  in  great 
quantity,  it  is  not  conspicuous  upon  the  tree.  Its  trunk  and 
branches  are  peculiarly  fantastic  in  their  twisting,  showing 
their  fibres  at  every  turn  ; and  the  trunk  is  often  hollow,  and 
even  rent  into  many  divisions  like  separate  stems,  but  the  ex- 
tremities are  exquisitely  graceful,  especially  in  the  setting  on 
of  the  leaves  ; and  the  notable  and  characteristic  effect  of  the 
tree  in  the  distance  is  of  a rounded  and  soft  mass  or  ball  of 
downy  foliage. 

§ XV.  Supposing  a modern  artist  to  address  himself  to  the 
rendering  of  this  tree  wdth  his  best  skill : he  will  probably 
draw  accurately  the  twisting  of  the  branches,  but  yet  this  will 
hardly  distinguish  the  tree  from  an  oak  : he  will  also  render 
the  color  and  intricacy  of  the  foliage,  but  this  will  only  confuse 
the  idea  of.  an  oak  with  thnt  of  a willow.  The  fruit,  and  the 


178 


THIKD  PERIOD. 


l)eculiar  grace  of  the  leaves  at  the  extremities,  and  the  fibrous, 
structure  of  the  stems,  will  all  be  too  minute  to  be  rendered 
consistently  with  his  artistical  feeling  of  breadth,  or  with  the 
amount  of  labor  which  he  considers  it  dexterous  and  legitimate 
to  bestow  upon  the  work  : but,  above  all,  the  rounded  and  mo- 
notonous form  of  the  head  of  the  tree  will  be  at  variance  with 
his  ideas  of  composition he  will  assuredly  disguise  or  break 
it,  and  the  main  points  of  the  olive-tree  will  all  at  last  remain 
untold. 

§ XVI.  Now  observe,  the  old  Byzantine  mosaicist  begins 
his  work  at  enormous  disadvantage.  It  is  to  be  some  one 
hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the  eye,  in  a dark  cupola ; execm 
ted  not  with  free  touches  of  the  pencil,  but  with  square  pieces 
of  glass ; not  by  his  own  hand,  but  by  various  workmen  under 
his  superintendence ; finally,  not  with  a principal  purpose  of 
drawing  olive-trees,  but  mainly  as  a decoration  of  the  cupola. 
There  is  to  be  an  olive-tree  beside  each  apostle,  and  their  stems 
are  to  be  the  chief  lines  which  divide  the  dome.  He  therefore 
at  once  gives  up  the  irregular  twisting  of  the  boughs  hither 
and  thither,  but  he  will  not  give  up  their  fibres.  Other  trees 
have  irregular  and  fantastic  branches,  but  the  knitted  cordage 
of  fibres  is  the  olive’s  own.  Again,  were  he  to  draw  the  leaves 
of  their  natural  size,  they  would  be  so  small  that  their  forms 
would  be  invisible  in  the  darkness ; and  were  he  to  draw  them 
so  large  as  that  their  shape  might  be  seen,  they  would  look  like 
laurel  instead  of  olive.  So  he  arranges  them  in  small  clusters 
of  five  each,  nearly  of  the  shape  which  the  Byzantines  give  to 
the  petals  of  the  lily,  but  elongated  so  as  to  give  the  idea  of  leaf- 
age upon  a spray ; and  these  clusters, — his  object  always,  be  it 
remembered,  being  decoration  not  less  than  representation^ — 
he  arranges  symmetrically  on  each  side  of  his  branches,  laying 
the  whole  on  a dark  ground  most  truly  suggestive  of  the  heavy 
rounded  mass  of  the  tree,  which,  in  its  turn,  is  relieved  against 
the  gold  of  the  cupola.  Lastly,  comes  the  question  respecting 
the  fruit.  The  whole  power  and  honor  of  the  olive  is  in  its 
fruit ; and,  unless  that  be  represented,  nothing  is  represented. 
But  if  the  berries  were  colored  black  or  green,  they  would  be 


Mosaics  of  Olivetree  and  Flowers. 


IV.  COKCLUSIOK. 


179 


totally  invisible ; if  of  any  otlier  color,  utterly  unnatural,  and 
violence  would  be  done  to  the  whole  conception.  There  is  but 
one  conceivable  means  of  showing  them,  namely  to  represent 
them  as  golden.  For  the  idea  of  golden  fruit  of  various  kinds 
was  already  familiar  to  the  mind,  as  in  the  apples  of  the  Iles- 
perides,  without  any  violence  to  the  distinctive  conception  of 
the  fruit  itself.*  So  the  mosaicist  introduced  small  round 
golden  berries  into  the  dark  ground  between  each  leaf,  and  his 
work  was  done. 

§ XVII.  On  the  opposite  plate,  the  uppermost  figure  on  the 
left  is  a tolerably  faithful  representation  of  the  general  effect 
of  one  of  these  decorative  olive-trees ; the  figure  on  the  riglit 
is  the  head  of  the  tree  alone,  showing  the  leaf  clusters,  berries, 
and  interlacing  of  the  boughs  as  they  leave  the  stem.  Each 
' bough  is  connected  with  a separate  line  of  fibre  in  the  trunk, 
and  the  junctions  of  the  arms  and  stem  are  indicated,  down  to 
the  very  root  of  the  tree,  with  a truth  in  structure  which  may 
well  put  to  shame  the  tree  anatomy  of  modern  times. 

§ XVIII.  The  white  branching  figures  upon  the  serpentine 
band  below  are  two  of  the  clusters  of  flowers  which  form  the 
foreground  of  a mosaic  in  the  atrium.  I have  printed  the 
whole  plate  in  blue,  because  that  color  approaches  more  nearly 
than  black  to  the  distant  effect  of  the  mosaics,  of  which  the 
darker  portions  are  generally  composed  of  blue,  in  greater 
quantity  than  any  other  color.  But  the  waved  background  in 
this  instance,  is  of  various  shades  of  blue  and  green  alternately, 
with  one  narrow  black  band  to  give  it  force ; the  whole  being 
intended  to  represent  the  distant  effect  and  color  of  deep  grass, 
and  the  wavy  line  to  express  its  hending  motion^  just  as  the 
same  symbol  is  used  to  represent  the  waves  of  water.  Then 
the  two  white  clusters  are  representative  of  the  distinctly  vdsi- 

* Thus  the  grapes  pressed  by  Excesse  are  partly  golden  (Spenser,  book 
ii.  cant.  12.): 

‘ ‘ Which  did  themselves  amongst  the  leaves  enfold, 

As  lurking  from  the  view  of  covetous  guest. 

That  the  weake  boughes,  with  so  rich  load  opprest 
Did  bow  adowne  as  overburdened.” 


180 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


Lie  lierbage  close  to  tlie  s^^ectator,  liaving  buds  and  flowers  of 
two  kinds,  springing  in  one  case  out  of  the  midst  of  twisted 
grass,  and  in  the  other  ont  of  their  own  proper  leaves ; the 
clusters  being  kept  each  so  distinctly  symmetrical,  as  to  form, 
wdien  set  side  by  side,  an  ornamental  border  of  perfect  archi- 
tectural severity ; and  yet  each  cluster  different  from  the  next, 
and  every  flowSr,  and  bud,  and  knot  of  grass,  varied  in  form 
and  thought.  The  way  the  mosaic  tesserae  are  arranged,  so^js 
to  give  the  writhing  of  the  grass  blades  round  the  stalks  of  the 
flowers,  is  exceedingly  fine. 

The  tree  circles  below  are  examples  of  still  more  severely 
conventional  forms,  adopted,  on  principle,  when  the  decoration 
is  to  be  in  white  and  gold,  instead  of  color ; these  ornaments 
being  cut  in  white  marble  on  the  outside  of  the  church,  and 
the  ground  laid  in  wdth  gold,  though  necessarily  here  repre- 
sented, like  the  rest  of  the  plate,  in  blue.  And  it  is  exceed- 
ingly interesting  to  see  how  the  noble  workman,  the  moment 
he  is  restricted  to  more  conventional  materials,  retires  into  more 
conventional  forms,  and  reduces  his  various  leafage  into  sym- 
metry, now  nearly  perfect ; yet  observe,  in  the  central  figure, 
where  the  symbolic  meaning  of  the  vegetation  beside  the  cross 
required  it  to  be  more  distinctly  indicated,  he  has  given  it  life 
and  growth  by  throwing  it  into  unequal  curves  on  the  opposite 
sides. 

§ XIX.  I believe  the  reader  will  now  see,  that  in  these 
mosaics,  which  the  careless  traveller  is  in  the  habit  of  passing 
by  with  contempt,  there  is  a depth  of  feeling  and  of  meaning 
greater  than  in  most  of  the  best  sketches  from  nature  of  mod- 
ern times ; and,  without  entering  into  any  question  whether 
tliese  conventional  representations  are  as  good  as,  under  the  re- 
quired limitations,  it  was  possible  to  render  them,  they  are  at 
all  events  good  enough  completely  to  illustrate  that  mode  of 
symbolical  expression  which  appeals  altogether  to  thought,  and 
in  no  wise  trusts  to  realization.  And  little  as,  in  the  present 
state  of  our  schools,  such  an  assertion  is  likely  to  be  believed, 
the  fact  is  that  this  kind  of  expression  is  the  only  one  allow' 
ahle  in  noble  art. 


IV.  COXCLUSIOK. 


181 


§ XX.  1 pray  the  reader  to  have  patience  with  me  for  a few 
inoments.  I do  not  mean  that  no  art  is  noble  bnt  Byzantine 
mosaic;  bnt  no  art  is  noble  which  in  any  wise  depends  upon 
direct  imitation  for  its  effect  upon  the  mind.  This  was  asserted 
in  the  opening  chapters  of  Modern  Painters,”  bnt  not  njion 
the  liighest  grounds  ; the  results  at  which  we  liave  now  arrived 
in  our  investigation  of  early  art,  will  enable  me  to  place  it  cn 
a loftier  and  firmer  foundation. 

§ XXI.  We  have  just  seen  that  all  great  art  is  the  work  of 
the  whole  living  creature,  body  and  soul,  and  chiefly  of  the 
soul.  But  it  is  not  only  the  work  of  the  whole  creature,  it  like- 
wise addresses  the  whole  creature.  That  in  which  the  peiTect 
being  sjieaks,  must  also  have  the  perfect  being  to  listen.  I am 
not  to  spend  my  utmost  spirit,  and  give  all  my  strength  and 
life  to  my  work,  while  you,  spectator  or  hearer,  will  give  me  only 
the  attention  of  half  your  soul.  You  must  be  all  mine,  as  1 
am  all  yours ; it  is  the  only  condition  on  which  we  can  meet 
each  other.  All  your  faculties,  all  that  is  in  you  of  greatest 
and  best,  must  be  awake  in  you,  or  I have  no  i-eward.  The 
painter  is  not  to  cast  the  entire  treasure  of  his  human  nature 
into  his  labor,  merely  to  please  a part  of  the  beholder  : not 
merely  to  delight  his  senses,  not  merely  to  amuse  his  fancy, 
not  merely  to  beguile  him  into  emotion,  not  merely  to  lead 
him  into  thought,  but  to  do  all  this.  Senses,  fancy,  feeling, 
reason,  the  whole  of  the  beholding  spirit,  must  be  stilled  in  at- 
tention or  stirred  with  delight ; else  the  laboring  spirit  has  not 
done  its  work  well.  For  observe,  it  is  not  merely  its  right  to 
be  thus  met,  face  to  face,  heart  to  heart ; but  it  is  its  duty  to 
evoke  its  answering  of  the  other  soul ; its  trumpet  call  must  be 
so  clear,  that  though  the  challenge  may  by  dulness  or  indo- 
lence be  unanswered,  there  shall  be  no  error  as  to  the  meaning 
of  the  appeal ; there  must  be  a summons  in  the  work,  wliich 
it  shall  be  our  own  fault  if  we  do  not  obey.  We  require  this 
of  it,  we  beseech  this  of  it.  Most  men  do  not  know  what  is 
in  them,  till  they  receive  this  summons  from  their  fellows: 
their  hearts  die  within  them,  sleep  settles  upon  them,  the  leth- 
argy of  the  world’s  miasmata ; there  is  nothing  for  which  they 


182 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


are  so  tliaiikful  as  for  that  cry,  Awake,  tlioii  that  sleepest.” 
And  tins  cry  must  be  most  loudly  uttered  to  their  noblest  fac- 
ulties ; first  of  all  to  the  imagination,  for  that  is  the  most  ten- 
der, and  the  soonest  struck  into  numbness  by  the  poisoned  air ; 
so  that  one  of  the  main  functions  of  art  in  its  service  to  man, 
is  to  arouse  the  imagination  from  its  palsy,  like  the  angel  troub- 
ling the  Bethesda  pool ; and  the  art  which  does  not  do  this  is 
false  to  its  duty,  and  degraded  in  its  nature.  It  is  not  enough 
that  it  be  well  imagined,  it  must  task  the  beholder  also  to  im- 
agine well ; and  this  so  imperatively,  that  if  he  does  not  choose 
to  rouse  himself  to  meet  the  work,  he  shall  not  taste  it,  nor  en- 
joy it  in  any  wise.  Once  that  he  is  well  awake,  the  guidance 
which  the  artist  gives  him  should  be  full  and  authoritative : 
tlie  beholder’s  imagination  must  not  be  suffered  to  take  its  own 
way,  or  wander  hither  and  thither ; but  neither  must  it  be  left 
at  rest ; and  the  right  point  of  realization,  for  any  given  work 
of  art,  is  that  which  will  enable  the  spectator  to  complete  it 
for  himself,  in  the  exact  way  the  artist  would  have  him,  but 
not  that  which  will  save  him  the  trouble  of  effecting  the  com- 
pletion. So  soon  as  the  idea  is  entirely  conveyed,  the  artist’s 
labor  should  cease  ; and  every  touch  which  he  adds  beyond  the 
ppint  when,  with  the  help  of  the  beholder’s  imagination,  the 
story  ought  to  have  been  told,  is  a degradation  to  his  work. 
So  that  the  art  is  wrong,  which  either  realizes  its  subject  com- 
pletely, or  fails  in  giving  such  definite  aid  as  shall  enable  it  to 
be  realized  by  the  beholding  imagination. 

§ XXII.  It  follows,  therefore,  that  the  quantity  of  finish  or 
detail  which  may  rightly  be  bestowed  upon  any  work,  depends 
on  the  number  and  kind  of  ideas  which  the  artist  wishes  to 
convey,  much  more  than  on  the  amount  of  realization  necessary 
to  enable  the  imagination  to  grasp  them.  It  is  true  that  the 
differences  of  judgment  formed  by  one  or  another  observer  are 
in  great  degree  dependent  on  their  unequal  imaginative  powers, 
as  well  as  their  unequal  efforts  in  following  the  artist’s  inten- 
tion ; and  it  constantly  happens  that  the  drawing  which  appears 
clear  to  the  painter  in  whose  mind  the  thought  is  formed,  is 


lY.  CONCLUSION'. 


183 


slightly  inadequate  to  suggest  it  to  the  spectator.  These  causes 
of  false  judgment,  or  imperfect  achievement,  must  always  exist, 
but  they  are  of  no  importance.  For,  in  nearly  every  mind, 
the  imaginative  power,  however  unable  to  act  independently, 
is  so  easily  helped  and  so  brightly  animated  by  the  most  ob- 
scure suggestion,  that  there  is  no  form  of  artistical  language 
which  will  not  readily  be  seized  by  it,  if  once  it  set  itself  in- 
telligently to  the  task  ; and  even  without  such  effort  there  are 
few  hieroglyphics  of  which,  once  understanding  that  it  is  to 
take  them  as  hieroglyphics,  it  cannot  make  itself  a pleasant 
picture. 

§ XXIII.  Thus,  in  the  case  of  all  sketches,  etchings,  unfinish- 
ed engravings,  &c.,  no  one  ever  supposes  them  to  be  imitations. 
Black  outlines  on  white  paper  cannot  produce  a deceptive  re- 
semblance of  anything ; and  the  mind,  understanding  at  once 
that  it  is  to  depend  on  its  own  powers  for  great  part  of  its 
pleasure,  sets  itself  so  actively  to  the  task  that  it  can  completely 
enjoy  the  rudest  outline  in  which  meaning  exists.  Now,  when 
it  is  once  in  this  temper,  the  artist  is  infinitely  to  be  blamed 
who  insults  it  by  putting  anything  into  his  w^ork  which  is  not 
suggestive : having  summoned  the  imaginative  power,  he  must 
turn  it  to  account  and  keep  it  employed,  or  it  will  run  against 
him  in  indignation.  Whatever  he  does  merely  to  realize  and 
substantiate  an  idea  is  impertinent ; he  is  like  a dull  story-teller, 
dwelling  on  points  which  the  hearer  anticipates  or  disregards. 
The  imagination  will  say  to  him : knew  all  that  before;  I 

don’t  want  to  be  told  that.  Go  on ; or  be  silent,  and  let 
me  go  on  in  my  own  way.  I can  tell  the  story  better  than 
you.” 

Observe,  then,  whenever  finish  is  given  for  the  sake  of  reali- 
zation, it  is  wrong;  whenever  it  is  given  for  the  sake  of  add- 
ing ideas  it  is  right.  All  true  finish  consists  in  the  addition  of 
ideas,  that  is  to  say,  im  giving  the  imagination  more  food ; for 
once  well  awaked,  it  is  ravenous  for  food  : J3ut  the  painter  who 
finishes  in  order  to  substantiate  takes  the  food  out  of  its  mouth, 
and  it  will  turn  and  rend  him, 


184 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


§ XXIV.  Let  ns  go  back,  for  instance,  to  our  olive  grove, — 
or,  lest  the  reader  should  be  tired  of  olives,  let  it  be  an  oak 
copse, — and  consider  the  difference  between  the  substantiating 
and  the  imaginative  methods  of  finish  in  such  a subject.  A 
few  strokes  of  the  pencil,  or  dashes  of  color,  will  be  enough  to 
enable  the  imagination  to  conceive  a tree ; and  in  those  dashes 
of  color  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  would  have  rested,  and  would 
have  suffered  the  imagination  to  paint  what  more  it  liked  for 
itself,  and  grow  oaks,  or  olives,  or  apples,  out  of  the  few  dashes 
of  color  at  its  leisure.  On  the  other  hand,  Ilobbima,  one  of 
the  worst  of  the  realists,  smites  the  imagination  on  the  mouth, 
and  bids  it  be  silent,  while  he  sets  to  work  to  j>aint  his  oak  of 
the  right  green,  and  fill  up  its  foliage  laboriously  with  jagged 
touches,  and  furrow  the  bark  all  over  its  branches,,  so  as,  if  pos- 
sible, to  deceive  us  into  supposing  that  we  are  looking  at  a real 
oak ; which,  indeed,  we  had  much  better  do  at  once,  without 
giving  any  one  the  trouble  to  deceive  us  in  the  matter. 

§ XXV.  Now,  the  truly  great  artist  neither  leaves  the  imagi- 
nation to  itself,  like  Sir  Joshua,  nor  insults  it  by  realization, 
like  Hobbima,  but  finds  it  continual  employment  of  the  hap- 
piest kind.  Having  summoned  it  by  his  vigorous  first  touches, 
he  says  to  it : Here  is  a tree  for  you,  and  it  is  to  be  an  oak. 

Now  I know  that  you  can  make  it  green  and  intricate  for  your- 
self, but  that  is  not  enough  : an  oak  is  not  only  green  and  in- 
tricate, but  its  leaves  have  most  beautiful  and  fantastic  forms 
which  I am  very  sure  you  are  not  quite  able  to  complete  with- 
out help ; so  I will  draw  a cluster  or  two  perfectly  for  you, 
and  then  you  can  go  on  and  do  all  the  other  clusters.  So  far 
so  good  : but  the  leaves  are  not  enough ; the  oak  is  to  be  full 
of  acorns,  and  you  may  not  be  quite  able  to  imagine  the  way 
they  grow,  nor  the  pretty  contrast  of  their  glossy  almond- 
shaped  nuts  with  the  chasing  of  their  cups ; so  I will  draw  a 
bunch  or  two  of  acorns  for  you,  and  you  can  fill  up  the  oak 
with  others  like  them.  Good  : but  that  is  not  enough ; it  is  to 
be  a bright  day  in  summer,  and  all  the  outside  leaves  are  to  be 
glittering  in  the  sunshine  as  if  their  edges  were  of  gold  : I can- 
]iot  ])aint  this,  but  you  can;  so  I will  really  gild  some  of  the 


lY.  COi^CLUSIOJ^'. 


185 


edges  nearest  yoii,'^  and  you  can  turn  tl:e  gold  into  sunshine, 
and  cover  the  tree  with  it.  Well  done:  but  still  this  is  not 
enough ; the  tree  is  so  full  foliaged  and  so  old  that  the  wood 
birds  come  in  crowds  to  build  there ; they  are  singing,  two  or 
three  under  the  shadow  of  every  bough.  I cannot  show  you 
them  all ; but  here  is  a large  one  on  the  outside  spray,  and  you 
can  fancy  the  others  inside.” 

§ XXVI.  In  this  way  the  calls  upon  the  imagination  are  mul- 
tiplied as  a great  painter  finishes  ; and  from  these  larger  inci- 
dents he  may  proceed  into  the  most  minute  particulars,  and 
lead  the  companion  imagination  to  the  veins  in  the  leaves  and 
the  mosses  on  the  trunk,  and  the  shadows  of  the  dead  leaves 
upon  the  grass,  but  always  multiplying  thoughts,  or  subjects  of 
tliought,  never  working  for  the  sake  of  realization  ; the  amount 
of  realization  actually  reached  depending  on  his  space,  his 
materials,  and  the  nature  of  tlie  thoughts  he  washes  to  suggest. 
In  the  sculpture  of  an  oak-tree,  introduced  above  an  Adoration 
of  the  Magi  on  the  tomb  of  the  IJoge  Marco  Dolflno  (four- 
teenth century),  the  sculptor  has  been  content  wdth  a few 
leaves,  a single  acorn,  and  a bird ; while,  on  the  other  hand, 
Millais’  willow-tree  wdth  the  robin,  in  the  background  of  his 
“ Ophelia,”  or  the  foreground  of  Hunt’s  Tw^o  Gentlemen  of 
Verona,”  carries  the  appeal  to  the  imagination  into  particulars 
so  multiplied  and  minute,  that  the  work  nearly  reaches  realiza- 
tion. But  it  does  not  matter  how  near  realization  the  work 
may  approach  in  its  fulness,  or  how  far  off  it  may  remain  in 
its  slightness,  so  long  as  realization  is  not  the  end  proposed, 
but  the  informing  one  spirit  of  the  thoughts  of  another.  And 
ill  this  greatness  and  simplicity  of  purpose  all  noble  art  is  alike, 
however  slight  its  means,  or  however  perfect,  from  the  rudest 
mosaics  of  St.  Mark’s  to  the  most  tender  finishing  of  the 
Huguenot  ” or  the  Ophelia.” 

§ XXVII.  Only  observe,  in  this  matter,  that  a greater  degree 

* The  reader  must  not  suppose  that  the  use  of  gold,  in  this  manner,  is 
ijonfined  to  early  art.  Tintoret,  the  greatest  master  of  pictorial  elfect  that 
ever  existed,  has  gilded  the  ribs  of  the  fig-leaves  in  his  ‘‘Resurrection,”  iu 
the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco, 


18G 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


of  realization  is  often  allowed,  for  the  sake  of  color,  than  would 
be  I’ight  without  it.  For  there  is  not  any  distinction  between 
the  artists  of  the  inferior  and  tlie  nobler  schools  more  definite 
tlian  this  ; that  the  first  color  for  the  sake  of  realization^  and 
the  second  realize  for  the  sake  of  color,  I hope  that,  in  the 
lifth  chapter,  enough  has  been  said  to  show  the  nobility  of 
color,  though  it  is  a subject  on  which  I would  fain  enlarge 
Avhenever  I approach  it : for  there  is  none  that  needs  more  to 
be  insisted  upon,  chiefly  on  account  of  the  opposition  of  the 
2)ersons  who  have  no  eye  for  color,  and  who,  being  therefore 
unable  to  understand  that  it  is  just  as  divine  and  distinct  in  its 
powder  as  music  (only  infinitely  more  varied  in  its  harmonies), 
talk  of  it  as  if  it  were  inferior  and  servile  wdth  respect  to  the 
other  powers  of  art ; ^ whereas  it  is  so  far  from  being  this,  that 
wherever  it  enters  it  must  take  the  mastery,  and,  whatever  else 
is  sacrificed  for  its  sake,  it,^  at  least,  must  be  right.  This  is 
jiartly  the  case  even  with  music : it  is  at  our  choice,  whether 
we  will  accompany  a poem  with  music,  or  not ; but,  if  we  do, 
the  music  must  be  right,  and  neither  discordant  nor  inexpres- 
sive. The  goodness  and  sweetness  of  the  poem  cannot  save  it, 
if  the  music  be  harsh  or  false ; but,  if  the  music  be  right,  the 
poem  may  be  insipid  or  inharmonious,  and  still  saved  by  the 
notes  to  which  it  is  wedded.  But  this  is  far  more  true  of  color. 
If  that  be  wrong,  all  is  wrong.  No  amount  of  expression  or 

* Nothing  is  more  wonderful  to  me  than  to  hear  the  pleasure  of  the  eye, 
in  color,  spoken  of  with  disdain  as  sensual,”  while  people  exalt  that  of 
the  ear  in  music.  Do  they  really  suppose  the  eye  is  a less  noble  bodily 
organ  than  the  ear, — that  the  organ  by  which  nearly  all  our  knowledge  of 
the  external  universe  is  communicated  to  us,  and  through  which  we  learn 
the  wonder  and  the  love,  can  be  less  exalted  in  its  own  peculiar  delight  than 
the  ear,  which  is  only  for  the  communication  of  the  ideas  which  owe  to  the 
eye  their  very  existence?  I do  not  mean  to  depreciate  music:  let  it  be  loved 
and  reverenced  as  is  just;  only  let  the  delight  of  the  eye  be  reverenced 
more.  The  great  power  of  music  over  the  multitude  is  owing,  not  to  its 
being  less  but  more  sensual  than  color;  it  is  so  distinctly  and  so  richly 
sensual,  that  it  can  be  idly  enjoyed ; it  is  exactly  at  the  point  where  the 
lower  and  higher  pleasures  of  the  senses  and  imagination  are  balanced;  so 
that  pure  and  great  minds  love  it  for  its  invention  and  emotion,  and  lower 
jninds  for  its  sensual  power, 


IV.  CONCLUSIOT. 


187 


invention  can  redeem  an  ill-colored  picture ; while,  on  the 
other  hand,  if  the  color  be  right,  there  is  nothing  it  will  not 
raise  or  redeem ; and,  therefore,  wherever  color  enters  at  all, 
anything  may  be  sacrificed  to  it,  and,  rather  than  it  should  be 
false  or  feeble,  everything  must  be  sacrificed  to  it : so  that, 
when  an  artist  touches  color,  it  is  the  same  thing  as  when  a 
poet  takes  up  a musical  instrument ; he  implies,  in  so  doing, 
that  he  is  a master,  up  to  a certain  point,  of  that  instrument, 
and  can  produce  sweet  sound  from  it,  and  is  able  to  fit  the 
course  and  measure  of  his  words  to  its  tones,  which,  if  he  be 
not  able  to  do,  he  had  better  not  have  touched  it.  In  like 
maimer,  to  add  color  to  a drawing  is  to  undertake  for  the  per- 
fection of  a visible  music,  which,  if  it  be  false,  will  utterly  and 
assuredly  mai  the  whole  work ; if  true,  proportionately  elevate 
it,  according  to  its  power  and  sweetness.  But,  in  no  case  ought 
the  color  to  be  added  in  order  to  increase  the  realization.  The 
drawing  or  engraving  is  all  that  the  imagination  needs.  To 
paint”  the  subject  merely  to  make  it  more  real,  is  only  to  in- 
sult the  imaginative  power ^ and  to  vulgarize  the  whole.  Hence 
the  common,  though  little  understood  feeling,  among  men  of 
ordinary  cultivation,  that  an  inferior  sketch  is  always  better 
than  a bad  painting ; although,  in  the  latter,  there  may  verily 
be  more  skill  than  in  the  former.  For  the  painter  who  has 
presumed  to  touch  color  withoiic  perfectly  understanding  it, 
not  for  the  color’s  sake,  nor  because  he  loves  it,  but  for  the 
sake  of  completion  merely,  has  committed  two  sins  against  us  ; 
he  has  dulled  the  imagination  by  not  trusting  it  far  enough, 
and  then,  in  this  languid  state,  he  oppresses  it  with  base  and 
false  color ; for  all  color  that  is  not  loveljg  is  discordant ; there 
is  no  mediate  condition.  So,  therefore,  when  it  is  permitted 
to  enter  at  all,  it  must  be  with  the  predetermination  that,  cost 
what  it  will,  the  color  shall  be  right  and  lovely : and  I only 
wish  that,  in  general,  it  were  better  understood  that  2l  painter^ s 
business  is  to  painty  primarily  ; and  that  all  expression,  and 
grouping,  and  conceiving,  and  what  else  goes  to  constitute 
design,  are  of  less  importance  than  color^  in  a colored  loork. 
And  so  they  were  always  considered  in  the  noble  periods ; and 


188 


TIIIKD  PERIOD. 


soinetiines  all  resemblance  to  nature  whatever  (as  in  painted 
windows,  illuminated  manuscripts,  and  such  other  work)  is 
sacrificed  to  the  brilliancy  of  color ; sometimes  distinctness  of 
form  to  its  richness,  as  by  Titian,  Turner,  and  Reynolds ; and, 
which  is  the  point  on  which  we  are  at  present  insisting,  some- 
times, in  the  pursuit  of  its  utmost  refinements  on  the  surfaces 
of  objects,  an  amount  of  realization  becomes  consistent  with 
noble  art,  which  would  otherwise  be  altogether  inadmissible,, 
that  is  to  say,  which  no  great  mind  could  otherwise  have  either 
produced  or  enjoyed.  The  extreme  finish  given  by  the  Pre- 
Raphaelites  is  rendered  noble  chiefiy  by  their  love  of  color. 

§ XXVIII.  So  then,  whatever  may  be  the  means,  or  whatever 
the  more  immediate  end  of  any  kind  of  art,  all  of  it  that  is 
good  agrees  in  this,  that  it  is  the  expression  of  one  soul  talking 
to  another,  and  is  precious  according  to  the  greatness  of  the 
soul  that  utters  it.  And  consider  what  mighty  consequences 
follow  from  our  acceptance  of  this  truth  ! what  a key  we  have 
herein  given  us  for  the  interpretation  of  the  art  of  all  time  ! 
For,  as  long  as  we  held  art  to  consist  in  any  high  manual  skill, 
or  successful  imitation  of  natural  objects,  or  any  scientific  and 
legalized  manner  of  performance  whatever,  it  was  necessary  for 
ns  to  limit  our  admiration  to  narrow  periods  and  to  few  men. 
According  to  our  own  knowledge  and  sympathies,  the  period 
chosen  might  be  different,  and  our  rest  might  be  in  Greek  stat- 
ues, or  Dutch  landscapes,  or  Italian  Madonnas  ; but,  whatever 
our  choice,  we  were  therein  captive,  barred  from  all  reverence 
but  of  our  favorite  masters,  and  habitually  using  the  language  of 
contempt  towards  the  whole  of  the  human  race  to  whom  it  had 
not  pleased  Heaven  to  reveal  the  arcana  of  the  particular  crafts- 
manship we  admired,  and  who,  it  might  be,  had  lived  their 
term  of  seventy  years  upon  the  earth,  and  fitted  themselves 
therein  for  the  eternal  world,  without  any  clear  understanding, 
sometimes  even  with  an  insolent  disregard,  of  the  laws  of  per- 
spective and  chiaroscuro. 

But  let  us  once  comprehend  the  holier  nature  of  the  art  of 
man,  and  begin  to  look  for  the  meaning  of  the  spirit,  however 
syllal)lecl,  and  the  scene  is  clianged  j and  avo  are  changed  also. 


ly.  CONCLUSIOi^-. 


189 


Those  small  and  dexterous  creatures  whom  once  we  wor- 
shipped, those  fur-capped  divinities  with  sceptres  of  camePs 
hair,  peering  and  poring  in  their  one-windowed  chambers  over 
the  minute  preciousness  of  the  labored  canvas ; how  are  they 
swept  away  and  crushed  into  unnoticeable  darkness ! And  in 
their  stead,  as  the  walls  of  the  dismal  rooms  that  enclosed  them, 
and  us,  are  struck  by  the  four  winds  of  Heaven,  and  rent  away, 
and  as  the  world  opens  to  our  sight,  lo  ! far  back  into  all  the 
depths  of  time,  and  forth  from  all  the  fields  that  have  been 
sown  with  human  life,  how  tlie  harvest  of  the  dragon’s  teeth 
is  springing ! how  the  companies  of  the  gods  are  ascending  out 
of  the  earth ! The  dark  stones  that  have  so  long  been  tlie 
sepulchres  of  the  thoughts  of  nations,  and  the  forgotten  ruins 
wherein  their  faith  lay  charnelled,  give  up  the  dead  that  were 
in  them ; and  beneath  the  Egyptian  ranks  of  sultry  and  silent 
rock,  and  amidst  the  dim  golden  lights  of  the  Byzantine  dome, 
and  out  of  the  confused  and  cold  shadows  of  the  Northern 
cloister,  behold,  the  multitudinous  souls  come  forth  with  sing- 
ing, gazing  on  us  with  the  soft  eyes  of  newly  comprehended 
sympathy,  and  stretching  their  white  arms  to  us  across  the 
gi-ave,  in  the  solemn  gladness  of  everlasting  brotherhood. 

§ XXIX.  The  other  danger  to  which,  it  was  above  said,  we 
were  primarily  exposed  under  our  present  circumstances  of 
life,  is  the  pursuit  of  vain  pleasure,  that  is  to  say,  false  pleasure  ; 
delight,  which  is  not  indeed  delight ; as  knowledge  vainly  ac- 
cumulated, is  not  indeed  knowledge.  And  this  we  are  exposed 
to  chiefly  in  the  fact  of  our  ceasing  to  be  children.  For  the 
child  does  not  seek  false  pleasure  ; its  pleasures  are  true,  simple, 
and  instinctive : but  the  youth  is  apt  to  abandon  his  early  and 
true  delight  for  vanities, — seelving  to  be  like  men,  and  sacrific- 
ing his  natural  and  pure  enjoyments  to  his  pride.  In  like 
manner,  it  seems  to  me  that  modern  civilization  sacrifices  mucli 
pure  and  true  pleasure  to  various  forms  of  ostentation  from 
which  it  can  receive  no  fruit.  Consider,  for  a moment,  wdiat 
kind  of  pleasures  are  open  to  human  nature,  undiseased.  Pass- 
ing  by  the  consideration  of  the  pleasures  of  the  higher  affec- 
tions, which  lie  at  the  root  of  everything,  and  considering  the 


190 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


definite  and  practical  jdeasiires  of  daily  life,  there  is,  first,  the 
pleasure  of  doing  good  ; the  greatest  of  all,  only  apt  to  be  de- 
spised from  not  being  often  enough  tasted  : and  then,  I know 
not  in  what  order  to  put  them^  nor  does  it  matter, — the  pleas- 
ure of  gaining  knowledge ; the  pleasure  of  the  excitement  of 
imagination  and  emotion  (or  poetry  and  passion) ; and,  lastly, 
the  gratification  of  the  senses,  first  of  the  eye,  then  of  the  ear, 
and  then  of  the  others  in  their  order. 

§ XXX.  All  these  we  are  apt  to  make  subservient  to  the 
desire  of  praise ; nor  unwisely,  when  the  praise  sought  is  God’s 
and  the  conscience’s:  but  if  the  sacrifice  is  made  for  man’s 
admiration,  and  knowledge  is  only  sought  for  praise,  passion 
repressed  or  affected  for  praise,  and  the  arts  practised  for  praise, 
we  are  feeding  on  the  bitterest  apples  of  Sodom,  suffering 
always  ten  mortifications  for  one  delight.  And  it  seems  to  me, 
that  in  the  modern  civilized  world  we  make  such  saci’ifice 
doubly  : first,  by  laboring  for  merely  ambitious  purposes  ; and 
secondly,  which  is  the  main  point  in  question,  by  being  ashamed 
of  simple  pleasures,  more  especially  of  the  pleasure  in  sweet 
color  and  form,  a pleasure  evidently  so  necessary  to  man’s  per- 
fectness and  virtue,  that  the  beauty  of  color  and  form  has  been 
given  lavishly  throughout  the  whole  of  creation,  so  that  it  may 
become  the  food  of  all,  and  with  such  intricacy  and  subtlety 
that  it  may  deeply  employ  the  thoughts  of  all.  If  we  refuse 
to  accept  the  natural  delight  which  the  Deity  has  thus  pro- 
vided for  us,  we  must  either  become  ascetics,  or  we  must  seek 
for  some  base  and  guilty  pleasures  to  replace  those  of  Pai*adise, 
which  we  have  denied  ourselves. 

Some  years  ago,  in  passing  through  some  of  the  cells  of  the 
Grand  Chartreuse,  noticing  that  the  window  of  each  apartment 
looked  across  the  little  garden  of  its  inhabitant  to  the  wall  of 
the  cell  opposite,  and  commanded  no  other  view,  I asked  the 
monk  beside  me,  why  the  window  w^as  not  rather  made  on  the 
side  of  the  cell  whence  it  would  open  to  the  solemn  fields  of 
the  Alpine  valley.  ‘AVe  do  not  come  here,”  he  replied,  to 
look  at  the  mountains.” 

§ XXXI.  The  same  answer  is  given,  practically,  by  the  men 


IV.  COKCLUSIOK. 


191 


of  this  century,  to  every  siicli  question  ; only  the  walls  with 
which  they  enclose  themselves  are  those  of  pride,  not  of  prayer. 
Jjnt  in  the  middle  ages  it  was  otherwise.  Not,  indeed,  in 
landscape  itself,  but  in  the  art  which  can  take  the  place  of  it, 
in  the  noble  color  and  form  with  which  they  illumined,  and 
into  which  they  wrought,  every  object  around  them  that  was 
in  any  wise  subjected  to  their  power,  they  obeyed  the  laws  of 
their  inner  nature,  and  found  its  proper  food.  The  splendor 
and  fantasy  even  of  dress,  which  in  these  days  we  pretend  to 
despise,  or  in  which,  if  we  even  indulge,  it  is  only  for  the  sake 
of  vanity,  and  therefore  to  our  infinite  harm,  were  in  those 
early  days  studied  for  love  of  their  true  beauty  and  honorable- 
ness, and  became  one  of  the  main  helps  to  dignity  of  character, 
and  courtesy  of  bearing.  Look  back  to  what  we  have  been 
told  of  the  dress  of  the  early  Yenetians,  that  it  was  so  invented 
that  in  clothing  themselves  with  it,  they  might  clothe  them 
selves  also  with  modesty  and  honor consider  what  noble- 
ness of  expression  there  is  in  the  dress  of  any  of  the  portrait 
figures  of  the  great  times,  nay,  what  perfect  beauty,  and  more 
than  beauty,  there  is  in  the  folding  of  the  robe  round  the  im- 
agined form  even  of  the  saint  or  of  the  angel ; and  then  consider 
whether  the  grace  of  vesture  be  indeed  a thing  to  be  despised. 
We  cannot  despise  it  if  we  would ; and  in  all  our  highest  poetry 
and  happiest  thought  we  cling  to  the  magnificence  which  in 
daily  life  we  disregard.  The  essence  of  modern  romance  is 
simply  the  return  of  the  heart  and  fancy  to  the  things  in  which 
they  naturally  take  pleasure  ; and  half  the  influence  of  the  best 
romances,  of  Ivanhoe,  or  Marmion,  or  the  Crusaders,  or  the 
Lady  of  the  Lake,  is  completely  dependent  upon  the  accessaries 
of  armor  and  costume.  Nay,  more  than  this,  deprive  the  Iliad 
itself  of  its  costume,  and  consider  how  much  of  its  power  would 
be  lost.  And  that  delight  and  reverence  which  we  feel  in,  and 
by  means  of,  the  mere  imagination  of  these  accessaries,  the 
middle  ages  had  in  the  vision  of  them  ; the  nobleness  of  dress 
exercising,  as  I have  said,  a perpetual  influence  upon  character, 


*Yol.  II.  Appendix  7. 


192 


THIBB  PEBTOD. 


tending  in  a tliousand  ways  to  increase  dignity  and  self-respect, 
and  together  with  grace  of  gesture,  to  induce  serenity  of  thought. 

§ XXXII.  I do  not  mean  merely  in  its  magnificence;  the 
most  splendid  time  was  not  the  best  time.  It  was  still  in  the 
thirteenth  century, — when,  as  we  have  seen,  simplicity  and  gor- 
geousness were  justly  mingled,  and  the  leathern  girdle  and 
clasp  of  bone”  were  worn,  as  well  as  the  embroidered  man- 
tle,— that  the  manner  of  dress  seems  to  have  been  noblest. 
The  chain  mail  of  the  knight,  flowing  and  falling  over  his 
form  in  lapping  waves  of  gloomy  strength,  was  worn  under  full 
robes  of  one  color  in  the  ground,  his  crest  quartered  on  them, 
and  their  borders  enriched  with  subtle  illumination.  The 
women  wore  first  a dress  close  to  the  form  in  like  manner,  and 
then  long  and  flowing  robes,  veiling  them  up  to  the  neck,  and 
delicately  embroidered  around  the  hem,  the  sleeves,  and  the 
girdle.  The  use  of  plate  armor  gradually  introduced  more 
fantastic  types  ; the  nobleness  of  the  form  was  lost  beneath  the 
steel ; the  gradually  increasing  luxury  and  vanity  of  the  age 
strove  for  continual  excitement  in  more  quaint  and  extravagant 
devices ; and  in  the  fifteenth  century,  dress  reached  its  point  of 
utmost  splendor  and  fancy,  being  in  many  cases  still  exquisitely 
graceful,  but  now,  in  its  morbid  magnificence,  devoid  of  all 
wholesome  influence  on  manners.  From  this  point,  like  archi- 
tecture, it  was  rapidly  degraded ; and  sank  through  the  buff 
coat,  and  lace  collar,  and  jack-boot,  to  the  bag-wig,  tailed  coat, 
and  high-heeled  shoes ; and  so  to  what  it  is  now. 

§ XXXIII.  Precisely  analogous  to  this  destruction  of  beauty 
in  dress,  has  been  that  of  beauty  in  architecture  ; its  color,  and 
grace,  and  fancy,  being  gradually  sacrificed  to  the  base  forms  of 
the  Renaissance,  exactly  as  the  splendor  of  chivalry  has  faded 
into  the  paltriness  of  fashion.  And  observe  the  form  in  which 
the  necessary  reaction  has  taken  place ; necessary,  for  it  was 
not  possible  that  one  of  the  strongest  instincts  of  the  human 
race  could  be  deprived  altogether  of  its  natural  food.  Exactly 
in  the  degree  that  the  architect  withdrew  from  his  buildings 
the  sources  of  delight  which  in  early  days  they  had  so  richly 
possessed,  demanding,  in  accordance  with  the  new  principles  of 


IV.  COiCCLUSIOK. 


193 


taste,  tlie  banishment  of  all  happy  color  and  healthy  invention, 
in  that  degree  the  minds  of  men  began  to  turn  to  landscape  as 
their  only  resource.  The  picturesque  school  of  art  rose  up  to 
address  those  capacities  of  enjoyment  for  which,  in  sculpture, 
architecture,  or  the  higher  walks  of  painting,  there  was  employ- 
ment no  more;  and  the  shadows  of  Rembrandt,  and  savageness 
of  Salvator,  arrested  the  admiration  which  was  no  longer  per- 
mitted to  be  rendered  to  the  gloom  or  the  grotesqueness  of 
the  Gothic  aisle.  And  thus  the  English  school  of  landscape, 
culminating  in  Turner,  is  in  reality  nothing  else  than  a healthy 
effort  to  fill  the  void  which  the  destruction  of  Gothic  architec- 
ture has  left. 

§ XXXIV.  But  the  void  cannot  thus  be  completely  filled ; no, 
nor  filled  in  any  considerable  degree.  The  art  of  landscape- 
painting will  never  become  thoroughly  interesting  or  sufficing 
to  the  minds  of  men  engaged  in  active  life,  or  concerned  prin- 
cipally with  practical  subjects.  The  sentiment  and  imagina- 
tion necessary  to  enter  fully  into  the  romantic  forms  of  art  are 
chiefly  the  characteristics  of  youth  ; so  that  nearly  all  men  as 
they  advance  in  years,  and  some  even  from  their  childhood 
upwards,  iriust  be  appealed  to,  if  at  all,  by  a direct  and  sub- 
stantial art,  brought  before  their  daily  observation  and  con- 
nected with  their  daily  interests.  No  form  of  art  answers 
these  conditions  so  well  as  architecture,  which,  as  it  can  receive 
help  from  every  character  of  mind  in  the  workman,  can  address 
every  character  of  mind  in  the  spectator ; forcing  itself  into 
notice  even  in  his  most  languid  moments,  and  jiossessing  this 
chief  and  peculiar  advantage,  that  it  is  the  property  of  all  men. 
Pictures  and  statues  may  be  jealously  withdrawn  by  their  pos- 
sessors from  the  public  gaze,  and  to  a certain  degree  their 
safety  requires  them  to  be  so  withdrawn;  but  the  outsides  of 
our  houses  belong  not  so  much  to  us  as  to  the  passer-by,  and 
whatever  cost  and  pains  we  bestow  upon  them,  though  too 
often  arising  out  of  ostentation,  have  at  least  the  effect  of  be- 
nevolence. 

§ XXXV.  If,  then,  considering  these  things,  any  of  my  readers 
sliould  determine,  according  to  their  means,  to  set  themselves  to 


194 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


the  revival  of  a healthy  school  of  architecture  in  England,  and 
wish  to  know  in  few  words  how  this  may  be  done,  the  answer 
is  clear  and  simple.  First,  let  us  cast  out  utterly  whatever  is 
connected  with  the  Greek,  Roman,  or  Renaissance  architecture, 
in  principle  or  in  form.  We  have  seen  above,  that  the  whole 
mass  of  the  architecture,  founded  on  Greek  and  Roman  models, 
which  we  have  been  in  the  habit  of  building  for  the  last  three 
centuries,  is  utterly  devoid  of  all  life,  virtue,  honorableness,  or 
power  of  doing  good.  It  is  base,  unnatural,  unfruitful,  unen- 
joyable,  and  impious.  Pagan  in  its  origin,  proud  and  unholy  in 
its  revival,  paralyzed  in  its  old  age,  yet  making  prey  iii  its 
dotage  of  all  the  good  and  living  things  that  were  springing 
around  it  in  their  youth,  as  the  dying  and  desperate  king,  who 
had  long  fenced  himself  so  strongly  with  the  towers  of  it,  is 
said  to  have  filled  his  failing  veins  with  the  blood  of  children 
an  architecture  invented,  as  it  seems,  to  make  jilagiarists  of  its 
architects,  slaves  of  its  workmen,  and  Sybarites  of  its  inhabitants  ; 
an  architecture  in  which  intellect  is  idle,  invention  impossible, 
but  in  which  all  luxury  is  gratified,  and  all  insolence  forti- 
fied ; — the  first  thing  we  have  to  do  is  to  cast  it  out,  and  shake 
the  dust  of  it  from  our  feet  for  ever.  Whatever  has  any  con- 
nexion with  the  five  orders,  or  with  any  one  of  the  orders, — what- 
ever is  Doric,  or  Ionic,  or  Tuscan,  or  Corinthian,  or  Composite, 
or  in  any  way  Grecized  or  Romanized  ; whatever  betrays  the 
smallest  respect  for  Yitruvian  laws,  or  conformity  with  Palla- 
dian  work, — that  we  are  to  endure  no  more.  To  cleanse  bur- 
selves  of  these  ^^cast  clouts  and  rotten  rags”  is  the  first  thing 
to  be  done  in  the  court  of  our  prison. 

§ XXXVI.  Then,  to  turn  our  prison  into  a palace  is  an  easy 
thing.  We  have  seen  above,  that  exactly  in  the  degree  in 

* Louis  the  Eleventh.  “ In  the  month  of  March,  1481,  Louis  was  seized 
with  a fit  of  apoplexy  at  St.  Benoit-du-lac-mort,  near  Chinon.  He  remained 
speechless  and  bereft  of  reason  three  days;  and  then  but  very  imperfectly 
restored,  he  languished  in  a miserable  state.  . . To  cure  him,’’  says  a con- 

temporary historian,  ‘‘wonderful  and  terrible  medicines  were  compounded. 
It  was  reported  among  the  people  that  his  physicians  opened  the  veins  of 
little  children,  and  made  him  drink  their  blood,  to  correct  the  poorness  of 
his  own.” — Bussey's  History  of  France.  London,  1850. 


IV.  COKCLUSION'. 


195 


wliicli  Greek  and  Roman  arcliitecture  is  lifeless,  unprofitable, 
and  unchristian,  in  that  same  degree  our  own  ancient  Gothic 
is  animated,  serviceable,  and  faithful.  We  have  seen  that  it  is 
flexible  to  all  duty,  enduring  to  all  time,  instructive  to  all 
hearts,  honorable  and  holy  in  all  offices.  It  is  capable  alike  of 
all  lowliness  and  all  dignity,  fit  alike  for  cottage  porch  or  cas- 
tle gateway ; in  domestic  service  familiar,  in  religious,  sublime ; 
simple,  and  playful,  so  that  childhood  may  read  it,  yet  clothed 
with  a power  that  can  awe  the  mightiest,  and  exalt  the  loftiest 
of  human  spirits : an  architecture  that  kindles  every  faculty 
in  its  workman,  and  addresses  every  emotion  in  its  beholder ; 
wliich,  with  every  stone  that  is  laid  on  its  solemn  walls,  raises 
some  human  heart  a step  nearer  heaven,  and  which  from  its 
birth  has  been  incorporated  with  the  existence,  and  in  all  its 
form  is  symbolical  of  the  faith,  of  Christianity.  In  this  archi- 
tecture let  us  henceforward  build,  alike  the  church,  the  palace, 
and  the  cottage ; but  chiefly  let  us  use  it  for  our  civil  and 
domestic  buildings.  These  once  ennobled,  our  ecclesiastical 
work  will  be  exalted  together  with  them  : but  churches  are 
not  the  proper  scenes  for  experiments  in  untried  architecture, 
nor  for  exhibitions  of  unaccustomed  beauty.  It  is  certain  that 
we  must  often  fail  before  we  can  again  build  a natural  and 
noble  Gothic  : let  not  our  temples  be  the  scenes  of  our  failures. 
It  is  certain  that  we  must  offend  many  deep-rooted  prejudices, 
before  ancient  Clnlstian  architecture  can  be  again  received 
by  all  of  us : let  not  religion  be  the  first  source  of  such  offence. 
We  shall  meet  with  difficulties  in  applying  Gothic  architecture 
to  churches,  which  would  in  no  wise  affect  the  designs  of  civil 
buildings,  for  the  most  beautiful  forms  of  Gothic  chapels  are 
not  those  which  are  best  fitted  for  Protestant  worship.  As  it 
was  noticed  in  the  second  volume,  when  speaking  of  the 
Cathedral  of  Torcello  it  seems  not  unlikely,  that  as  we  study 
either  the  science  of  sound,  or  the  practice  of  the  early 

* Observe,  I call  Gothic  Christian”  architecture,  not  ecclesiastical.” 
There  is  a wide  difference.  I believe  it  is  the  only  architecture  which  Chris- 
tian men  should  build,  but  not  at  all  an  architecture  necessarily  connected 
with  the  services  of  their  church. 


196 


THIRD  PERIOD. 


Christians,  we  may  see  reason  to  place  the  pulpit  generally  at 
the  extremity  of  the  apse  or  chancel ; an  arrangement  entirely 
destructive  of  the  beauty  of  a Gothic  church,  as  seen  in  exist- 
ing examples,  and  requiring  modifications  of  its  design  in  other 
parts  with  which  we  should  be  unwise  at  present  to  embarrass 
ourselves;  besides,  that  the  effort  to  introduce  the  style 
exclusively  for  ecclesiastical  purposes,  excites  against  it  the 
strong  prejudices  of  many  persons  who  might  otherwise  be 
easily  enlisted  among  its  most  ardent  advocates.  I am  quite 
sure,  for  instance,  that  if  such  noble  architecture  as  has  been 
employed  for  the  interior  of  the  church  just  built  in  Margaret 
Street  had  been  seen  in  a civil  building,  it  would  have 
decided  the  question  with  many  men  at  once ; whereas,  at 
present,  it  will  be  looked  upon  with  fear  and  suspicion,  as  the 
expression  of  the  ecclesiastical  principles  of  a particular  party. 
But,  whether  thus  regarded  or  not,  tins  church  assuredly 
decides  one  question  conclusively,  that  of  our  present  capa- 
bility of  Gothic  design.  It  is  the  first  piece  of  architecture  I 
have  seen,  built  in  modern  days,  w^hich  is  free  from  all  signs 
of  timidity  or  incapacity.  In  general  proportion  of  parts,  in 
refinement  and  piquancy  of  mouldings,  above  all,  in  force, 
vitality,  and  grace  of  floral  ornament,  worked  in  a broad  and 
masculine  manner,  it  challenges  fearless  comparison  with  the 
noblest  work  of  any  time.  Having  done  this,  we  may  do  any- 
thing ; there  need  be  no  limits  to  our  hope  or  our  confidence ; 
and  I believe  it  to  be  possible  for  us,  not  only  to  equal,  but 
far  to  surpass,  in  some  respects,  any  Gothic  yet  seen  in 
Northern  countries.  In  the  introduction  of  figure-sculpture, 
we  must,  indeed,  for  the  present,  remain  utterly  inferior,  for 
we  have  no  figures  to  study  from.  No  architectural  sculpture 

* Mr.  Hope’s  Church,  in  Margaret  Street,  Portland  Place.  I do  not  alto- 
gether like  the  arrangements  of  color  in  the  brickwork;  but  these  will 
liardly  attract  the  eye,  where  so  much  has  been  already  done  with  precious 
and  beautiful  marble,  and  is  yet  to  be  done  in  fresco.  Much  will  depend, 
however,  upon  the  coloring  of  this  latter  portion.  I wish  that  either 
Holman  Hunt  or  Millais  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  do  at  least  some  of  these 
smaller  frescoes. 


IV.  COKCLUSIOK. 


197 


was  ever  good  for  anything  wliicli  did  not  represent  the  dress 
and  persons  of  the  people  living  at  the  time ; and  onr  modern 
dress  will  not  form  decorations  for  spandrils  and  niches.  But 
in  floral  sculpture  we  may  go  far  beyond  what  has  yet  been 
done,  as  well  as  in  refinement  of  inlaid  work  and  general  exe- 
cution. For,  although  the  glory  of  Gothic  architecture  is  to 
receive  the  rudest  work,  it  refuses  not  the  best ; and,  when 
once  we  have  been  content  to  admit  the  handling  of  the  sim- 
plest workman,  we  shall  soon  be  rewarded  by  finding  many 
of  our  simple  workmen  become  cunning  ones  : and,  with  the 
help  of  modern  wealth  and  science,  we  may  do  things  like 
Giotto’s  campanile,  instead  of  like  our  own  rude  cathedrals; 
but  better  than  Giotto’s  campanile,  insomuch  as  we  may 
adopt  the  pure  and  perfect  forms  of  the  Northern  Gothic, 
and  work  them  out  with  the  Italian  refinement.  It  is  hardly 
possible  at  present  to  imagine  what  may  be  the  splendor  of 
buildings  designed  in  the  forms  of  English  and  French  thir- 
teenth century  surface  Gothic,  and  wrought  out  with  the 
refinement  of  Italian  art  in  the  details,  and  with  a deliberate 
resolution,  since  we  cannot  have  figure  sculpture,  to  display 
in  them  the  beauty  of  every  flower  and  herb  of  the  English 
fields,  each  by  each ; doing  as  much  for  every  tree  that  roots 
itself  in  our  rocks,  and  every  blossom  that  drinks  our  summer 
rains,  as  onr  ancestors  did  for  the  oak,  the  ivy,  and  the  rose. 
Let  this  be  the  object  of  our  ambition,  and  let  us  begin 
to  approach  it,  not  ambitiously,  but  in  all  humility,  accepting 
help  from  the  feeblest  hands ; and  the  London  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  may  yet  become  as  Venice  without  her  despo- 
tism, and  as  Florence  without  her  dispeace. 


APPEXDIX. 


1.  ARCHITECT  OF  THE  DUCAL  PALACE. 

Popular  tradition  and  a large  number  of  the  chroniclers 
ascribe  the  building  of  the  Ducal  Palace  to  that  Filippo  Calen- 
dario  who  suffered  death  for  his  share  in  tlie  conspiracy  of 
Faliero.  He  was  certainly  one  of  the  leading  architects  of  the 
time,  and  had  for  several  years  the  superintendence  of  the  works 
of  the  Palace  ; but  it  appears,  from  the  documents  collected  by 
the  Abbe  Cadorin,  that  the  first  designer  of  the  Palace,  the  man 
to  whom  we  owe  the  adaptation  of  the  Frari  traceries  to  civil 
architecture,  was  Pietro  Baseggio,  who  is  spoken  of  expressly  as 
‘^formerly  the  Chief  Master  of  our  Xew  Palace,'**  in  the  decree 
of  1361,  quoted  by  Cadorin,  and  who,  at  his  death,  left  Calen- 
dario  his  executor.  Other  documents  collected  by  Zanotto,  in 
his  work  on  Venezia  e le  sue  Lagune,’’  show  that  Calendario 
was  for  a long  time  at  sea,  under  the  commands  of  the  Signory, 
returning  to  Venice  only  three  or  four  years  before  his  death; 
and  that  therefore  the  entire  management  of  the  works  of  the 
Palace,  in  the  most  important  period,  must  have  been  entrusted 
to  Baseggio. 

It  is  quite  impossible,  however,  in  the  present  state  of  the 
Palace,  to  distinguish  one  architect's  work  from  another  in  the 
older  parts;  and  I have  not  in  the  text  embarrassed  the  reader 
by  any  attempt  at  close  definition  of  epochs  before  the  great 
junction  of  the  Piazzetta  Faqade  with  the  older  palace  in  the 
fifteenth  century.  Here,  however,  it  is  necessary  that  I should 
briefly  state  the  observations  I was  able  to  make  on  the  relative 
dates  of  the  earlier  portions. 


Glim  magUtri  prothi  palatii  uostri  uovi.” — Cadorin,  p.  127. 


200 


APPEis^DIX^  1. 


In  the  description  of  the  Fig-tree  angle,  given  in  the  eighth 
chajjter  of  Vol.  II.,  I said  that  it  seemed  to  me  somewhat  earlier 
than  tliat  of  the  Vine,  and  the  reader  might  be  surprised  at  the 
apparent  opposition  of  tliis  statement  to  my  supposition  that  the 
Palace  was  built  gradually  round  from  the  Eio  Facade  to  the 
Piazzetta.  But  in  the  two  great  open  arcades  there  is  no  suc- 
cession of  work  traceable ; from  the  Vine  angle  to  the  junction 
with  the  fifteenth  century  work,  above  and  below,  all  seems 
nearly  of  the  same  date,  the  only  question  being  of  the  acciden- 
tal precedence  of  workmanship  of  one  capital  or  another;  and  I 
think,  from  its  style,  that  the  Fig-tree  angle  must  have  been 
first  completed.  But  in  the  upper  stories  of  the  Palace  there 
are  enormous  differences  of  style.  On  the  Eio  Fa9ade,  in  the 
upper  story,  are  several  series  of  massive  windows  of  the  third 
order,  corresponding  exactly  in  mouldings  and  manner  of  work- 
manshij)  to  those  of  the  chapter-house  of  the  Frari,  and  conse- 
quently carrying  us  back  to  a very  early  date  in  the  fourteenth 
century  : several  of  the  capitals  of  these  windows,  and  two 
richly  sculptured  string-courses  in  the  wall  below,  are  of  Byzan- 
tine worknianship,  and  in  all  probability  fragments  of  the  Ziani 
Palace.  The  traceried  windows  on  the  Eio  Fagade,  and  the  two 
eastern  windows  on  the  Sea  Facade,  are  all  of  the  finest  early 
fourteenth  century  work,  masculine  and  noble  in  their  capitals 
and  bases  to  the  highest  degree,  and  evidently  contemporary 
with  the  very  earliest  portions  of  the  lower  arcades.  But  the 
moment  w^e  come  to  the  windows  of  the  Great  Council  Chamber 
the  style  is  debased.  The  mouldings  are  the  same,  but  they  are 
coarsely  worked,  and  the  heads  set  amidst  the  leafage  of  the 
capitals  quite  valueless  and  vile. 

I have  not  the  least  doubt  that  these  window-jambs  and 
traceries  were  restored  after  the  great  fire  ;*  and  various  other 
restorations  have  taken  place  since,  beginning  with  the  removal 
of  the  traceries  from  all  the  windows  except  the  northern  one 
of  the  Sala  del  Scrutinio,  behind  the  Porta  della  Carta,  where 
they  are  still  left.  I made  out  four  periods  of  restoration  among 

* A print,  dated  1585,  barbarously  inaccurate,  as  all  prints  were  at  tliat 
time,  but  still  in  some  respects  to  be  depended  upon,  represents  all  the  win- 
dows on  the  facade  full  of  traceries;  and  the  circles  above,  between  them, 
occupied  by  quatrefoils.  - 


APPENDIX,  1. 


201 


these  windows,  each  baser  than  the  preceding.  It  is  not  wortli 
troubling  the  reader  about  them,  but  the  traveller  who  is  inter- 
ested in  the  subject  may  compare  two  of  them  in  the  same  win- 
dow ; the  one  nearer  the  sea  of  the  two  belonging  to  the  little 
room  at  the  top  of  the  Palace  on  the  Piazzetta  Fa9ade,  between 
the  Sala  del  Gran  Consiglio  and  that  of  the  Scrutinio.  The  sea- 
ward jamb  of  that  window  is  of  the  first,  and  the  opposite  jamb 
of  the  second,  period  of  these  restorations.  These  are  all  the 
points  of  separation  in  date  which  I could  discover  by  internal 
evidence.  But  much  more  might  be  made  out  by  any  Venetian 
antiquary  whose  time  permitted  him  thoroughly  to  examine  any 
existing  documents  which  allude  to  or  describe  the  parts  of  the 
Palace  spoken  of  in  the  important  decrees  of  1340,  1342,  and 
1344;  for  the  first  of  these  decrees  speaks  of  certain  ‘'^columns 
looking  towards  the  Canal  ’’  * or  sea,  as  then  existing,  and  I 
presume  these  columns  to  have  been  part  of  the  Ziani  Palace, 
corresponding  to  the  part  of  that  palace  on  the  Piazzetta  wdiere 
were  the  red  columns”  between  which  Calendario  was  executed; 
and  a great  deal  more  might  be  determined  by  any  one  Avho 
would  thoroughly  unravel  the  obscure  language  of  those  decrees. 

Meantime,  in  order  to  complete  the  evidence  respecting  the 
main  dates  stated  in  the  text,  I have  collected  here  such  notices 
of  the  building  of  the  Ducal  Palace  as  appeared  to  me  of 
most  imjiortance  in  the  various  chronicles  I examined.  I could 
not  give  them  all  in  the  text,  as  they  repeat  each  other,  and 
would  have  been  tedious;  but  they  will  be  interesting  to  the 
antiquary,  and  it  is  to  be  especially  noted  in  all  of  them  how  the 
Palazzo  VeccJiio  is  invariably  distinguished,  either  directly  or  by 
implication,  from  the  Palazzo  Xuovo.  I shall  first  translate  the 
piece  of  the  Zancarol  Chronicle  given  by  Cadorin,  which  has 
chiefly  misled  the  Venetian  antiquaries.  I wish  I could  put  the 
rich  old  Italian  into  old  English,  but  must  be  content  to  lose  its 
raciness,  as  it  is  necessary  that  the  reader  should  be  fully  ac- 
quainted with  its  facts. 

It  was  decreed  that  none  should  dare  to  propose  to  the 
Signory  of  Venice  to  ruin  the  old  palace  and  rebuild  it  new  and 
more  richly,  and  there  was  a penalty  of  one  thousand  ducats 

* “Lata  tauto,  quantum  est  ambulum  existens  super  columnis  versus 
Canale  respicientibus.  ” 


202 


APPEKmX^  1. 


against  any  one  wlio  should  break  it.  Then  the  Doge,  wishing 
to  set  forward  the  public  good,  said  to  the  Signory,  . . . 

that  they  ought  to  rebuild  the  facades  of  the  old  palace,  and 
that  it  ought  to  be  restored,  to  do  honor  to  the  nation:  and  so 
soon  as  he  had  done  speaking,  the  Avogadori  demanded  the 
penalty  from  the  Doge,  for  having  disobeyed  the  law  ; and  the 
Doge  with  ready  mind  paid  it,  remaining  in  his  opinion  that 
the  said  fabric  ought  to  be  built.  And  so,  in  the  year  1422,  on 
the  20th  day  of  September,  it  was  passed  in  the  Council  of  the  ^ 
Pregadi  that  the  said  new  palace  should  be  begun,  and  the  ex-  I 
pense  should  be  borne  by  the  Signori  del  Sal;  and  so,  on  the  P 
24th  day  of  March,  1424,  it  was  begun  to  throw  down  the  old  ' 
palace,  and  to  build  it  anew.’^ — Cadorin,  p.  129. 

The  day  of  the  month,  and  the  council  in  which  the  decree 
was  passed,  are  erroneously  given  by  this  Chronicle.  Cadorin 
has  printed  the  words  of  the  decree  itself,  which  passed  in  the 
Great  Council  on  the  27th  September  : and  these  words  are,  j 
fortunately,  much  to  our  present  purpose.  For  as  more  than  j 
one  fagade  is  spoken  of  in  the  above  extract,  the  Marchese  Sel-  i 
vatico  was  induced  to  believe  that  both  the  front  to  the  sea  and  J 
that  to  the  Piazzetta  had  been  destroyed  ; whereas,  the  fagades”  ‘ 
spoken  of  are  evidently  those  of  the  Ziani  Palace.  For  the  , 
words  of  the  decree  (which  are  much  more  trustworthy  than  ? 
those  of  the  Chronicle,  even  if  there  were  any  inconsistency  be- 
tween  them)  run  thus  : ^^Palatium  nostrum  fabricetur  et  fiat  in  ; 
forma  decora  et  convenienti,  quod  respondeat  solemnissimo prin- 
cipio  palatii  nostri  noviJ^^  Thus  the  new  council  chamber  and  j 
facade  to  the  sea  are  called  the  most  venerable  beginning  of  \ 
our  Neiu  Palace and  the  rest  was  ordered  to  be  designed  in  | 
accordance  with  these,  as  was  actually  the  case  as  far  as  the  i 
Porta  della  Carta.  But  the  Renaissance  architects  who  thence-  ■ 
forward  proceeded  with  the  fabric,  broke  through  the  design, 
and  built  everything  else  according  to  their  own  humors. 

The  question  may  be  considered  as  set  at  rest  by  these  words 
of  the  decree,  even  without  any  internal  or  any  farther  docu- 
mentary evidence.  But  rather  for  the  sake  of  impressing  the 
facts  thoroughly  on  the  reader’s  mind,  than  of  any  additional 
])roof,  I shall  quote  a few  more  of  the  best  accredited  Chron- 
icles. 


APPENDIX,  1. 


The  passage  given  by  Bettio,  from  the  Sivos  Chronicle,  is  a 
very  important  parallel  with  that  from  the  Zancarol  above  : 

‘^Essendo  molto  vecchio,  e cpiasi  rovinoso  el  Palazzo  sopra  la 
piazza,  fo  deliberato  di  far  qnella  parte  tutta  da  novo,  et  contin- 
narla  com’  e qnella  della  Sala  grande,  et  cosi  il  Lunedi  27  Marzo 
1424  fu  dato  principle  a ruinare  detto  Palazzo  vecchio  dalla 
parte,  ch’  e verso  panateria  cioe  della  Ginstizia,  ch’  e nelli  occhi 
di  sopra  le  colonne  fine  alia  Chiesa  et  fo  fatto  anco  la  porta 
grande,  com’  e al  presente,  con  la  sala  che  si  addimanda  la 
Libraria.”  * 

We  have  here  all  the  facts  told  ns  in  so  many  words  : the 
^^old  palace”  is  definitely  stated  to  have  been  on  the  piazza,” 
and  it  is  to  be  rebnilt  like  the  part  of  the  great  saloon.”  The 
very  point  from  which  the  newer  buildings  commenced  is  told 
ns ; bnt  here  the  chronicler  has  carried  his  attempt  at  accuracy 
too  far.  The  point  of  jnnction  is,  as  stated  above,  at  the  third 
pillar  beyond  the  medallion  of  Venice  ; and  I am  much  at  a loss 
to  understand  what  conld  have  been  the  disposition  of  these 
three  pillars  where  they  joined  the  Ziani  Palace,  and  how  they 
were  connected  with  the  arcade  of  the  inner  cortile.  Bnt  with 
these  difficulties,  as  they  do  not  bear  on  the  immediate  question, 
it  is  of  no  use  to  trouble  the  reader. 

The  next  passage  I shall  give  is  from  a Chronicle  in  the  Mar- 
cian  Library,  bearing  title,  ^^Snpposta  di  Zancarnol bnt  in 
which  I conld  not  find  the  passage  given  by  Cadorin  from,  I be- 
lieve, a manuscript  of  this  Chl'onicle  at  Vienna.  There  occnrs 
instead  of  it  the  following  thus  headed  : — 

Come  la  ])arte  nova  del  Palazzo  fno  hedificata  novamente,  ^ 
‘^^El  Palazzo  novo  de  Venesia  qnella  parte  che  xe  verso  la 
Chiesia  de  S.  Marcho  fno  prexo  chel  se  fesse  del  1422  e fosse 
pagado  la  spexa  per  li  officiali  del  sal.  E fno  fatto  per  sovra- 
stante  G.  Nicolo  Barberigo  cnm  provision  de  dncati  X doro  al 
mexe  e fno  fabricado  e fatto  nobelissimo.  Come  fin  audio  di  el 
sta  e fno  grande  honor  a la  Signoria  de  Venesia  e a la  sna  Citta.” 
This  entry,  which  itself  bears  no  date,  bnt  comes  between 
others  dated  22d  July  and  27th  December,  is  interesting,  be- 
cause it  shows  the  first  transition  of  the  idea  of  newness,  from 


* Bettio,  p.  28. 


i04 


APPEISTDIX,  1. 


M 


the  Grand  Council  Chamber  to  the  part  built  under  Foscari. 
For  when  Mocenigo’s  wishes  had  been  fulfilled,  and  the  old 
palace  of  Ziani  had  been  destroyed,  and  another  built  in  its 
stead,  the  Great  Council  Chamber,  which  was  ^‘^the  new  palace’’ 
compared  with  Ziani’s,  became  the  old  palace”  compared  with 
Foscari’s  ; and  thus  we  have,  in  the  body  of  the  above  extract, 
the  whole  building  called  the  new  palace  of  Venice but  in 
the  heading  of  it,  we  have  the  nevi  part  of  the  palace”  applied 
to  the  part  built  by  Foscari,  in  contradistinction  to  the  Council 
Chamber. 

The  next  entry  I give  is  important,  because  the  writing  of 
the  MS.  in  which  it  occurs,  No.  53  in  the  Correr  Museum, 
shows  it  to  be  probably  not  later  than  the  end  of  the  fifteenth 
century  : 

^^El  palazo  nuovo  de  Venixia  zoe  quella  parte  che  se  sora  la 
piazza  verso  la  giesia  di  Miss.  San  Marcho  del  1422  fo  princi- 
piado,  el  qual  fo  fato  e finito  molto  belo,  chome  al  presente  se 
vede  nobilissimo,  et  a la  fabricha  de  quello  fo  deputado  Miss. 
Nicolo  Barberigo,  soprastante  con  ducati  dieci  doro  al  mexe.” 

We  have  here  the  part  built  by  Foscari  distinctly  called  the 
Palazzo  Nuovo,  as  opposed  to  the  Great  Council  Chamber, 
which  had  now  completely  taken  the  position  of  the  Palazzo 
Vecchio,  and  is  actually  so  called  by  Sansovino.  In  the  copy  of 
the  Chronicle  of  Paolo  Morosini,  and  in  the  MSS.  numbered  re- 
spectively 57,  59,  74,  and  76  in  the  Correr  Museum,  the  pas- 
sage above  given  from  No.  53  is  variously  repeated  with  slight 
modifications  and  curtailments  ; the  entry  in  the  Morosini 
Chronicle  being  headed,  ^^Come  fu  principiato  il  palazo  che 
guarda  sopra  la  piaza  grande  di  S.  Marco,”  and  proceeding  in 
the  words,  ^^El  Palazo  Nuovo  di  Venetia,  cioe  quella  parte  che 
e sopra  la  piaza,”  &c.,  the  writers  being  cautious,  in  all  these  in- 
stances, to  limit  their  statement  to  the  part  facing  the  Piazza, 
that  no  reader  might  suppose  the  Council  Chamber  to  have  been 
built  or  begun  at  the  same  time  ; though,  as  .long  as  to  the  end 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  we  find  the  Council  Chamber  still  in- 
cluded in  the  expression  Palazzo  Nuovo.”  Thus,  in  the  MS. 
No.  75  in  the  Correr  Museum,  which  is  about  that  date,  we 
liave  ''^Del  1422,  a di  20  Settembre  fu  preso  nel  consegio  grando 
de  dover  eompir  el  Palazo  Novo,  e dovesen  fare  la  spessa  li 


•a 

'I 

i 

i. 

l| 


it! 


APPE2STDIX,  2. 


205 


ofRcialli  del  Sal  (61.  M.  2.  And,  so  long  as  this  is  the 

case,  the  Palazzo  Vecchio’^  always  means  the  Ziani  Palace. 
Thus,  in  the  next  page  of  this  same  MS.  we  have  ^^adi  27 
Marzo  (1424  by  context)  fo  principia  a butar  zosso,  el  Palazzo 
Vecchio  per  refarlo  da  noYo,  e poi  se  he’’  (and  so  it  is  done) ; 
and  in  the  MS.  No.  81,  ^^Del  1424,  fo  gittado  zoso  el  Palazzo 
Vecchio  per  refarlo  de  nuoYO,  a di  27  Marzo.”  But  in  the 
time  of  Sansovino  the  Ziani  Palace  was  quite  forgotten;  the 
Council  Chamber  was  then  the  old  palace,  and  Foscari’s  part 
was  the  new.  His  account  of  the  Palazzo  Publico”  will  now 
be  perfectly  intelligible;  but,  as  the  work  itself  is  easily  accessi- 
ble, I shall  not  burden  the  reader  with  any  farther  extracts, 
only  noticing  that  the  chequering  of  the  fa9ade  with  red  and 
white  marbles,  which  he  ascribes  to  Foscari,  may  or  may  not  be 
of  so  late  a date,  as  there  is  nothing  in  the  style  of  the  work 
which  can  be  produced  as  evidence. 

2.  THEOLOGY  OF  SPEKSEK. 

The  following  analysis  of  the  first  books  of  the  Faerie 
Queen,”  may  be  interesting  to  readers  who  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  reading  the  noble  poem  too  hastily  to  connect  its  parts 
completely  together ; and  may  perhaps  induce  them  to  more 
careful  study  of  the  rest  of  the  poem. 

The  Eedcrosse  Knight  is  Holiness, — the  ^^Pietas”  of  St. 
Mark’s,  the  ^^Devotio”  of  Orcagna,- — meaning,  I think,  in  gen- 
eral, Keverence  and  Godly  Fear. 

This  Virtue,  in  the  opening  of  the  book,  has  Truth  (or  IJna) 
at  its  side,  but  presently  enters  the  Wandering  Wood,  and  en- 
counters the  serpent  Error ; that  is  to  say.  Error  in  her  univer- 
sal form,  the  first  enemy  of  Eeverence  and  Holiness ; and  more 
especially  Error  as  founded  on  learning ; for  when  Holiness 
strangles  her, 

''Her  Yomit  full  ofhooJces  and  papers  was, 

With  loathly  frogs  and  toades,  which  eyes  did  lacke.” 

Having  vanquished  this  first  open  and  palpable  form  of 
Error,  as  Eeverence  and  Eeligion  must  always  vanquish  it,  the 
Knight  encounters  Hypocrisy,  or  Archimagus  r Holiness  cannot 


20G 


APPENDIX^  2, 


detect  Hypocrisy,  but  believes  him,  and  goes  home  with  him; 
whereupon  Hypocrisy  succeeds  in  separating  Holiness  from 
Truth ; and  the  Knight  (Holiness)  and  Lady  (Truth)  go  forth 
separately  from  the  house  of  Archimagus. 

Kow  observe  : the  moment  Godly  Fear,  or  Holiness,  is  sep- 
arated from  Truth,  he  meets  Infidelity,  or  the  Knight  Sans 
Foy;  Infidelity  having  Falsehood,  or  Dues  a,  riding  behind 
him.  The  instant  the  Redcrosse  Knight  is  aware  of  the  attack 
of  Infidelity,  he 

Gan  fairly  couch  his  speare,  and  towards  ride.” 

He  vanquishes  and  slays  Infidelity  ; but  is  deceived  by  his 
companion.  Falsehood,  and  takes  her  for  his  lady  : thus  show- 
ing the  condition  of  Religion,  when,  after  being  attacked  by 
Doubt,  and  remaining  victorious,  it  is  nevertheless  seduced,  by 
any  form  of  Falsehood,  to  pay  reverence  where  it  ought  not. 
This,  then,  is  the  first  fortune  of  Godly  Fear  separated  from 
Truth.  The  poet  then  returns  to  Truth,  separated  from 
Godly  Fear.  She  is  immediately  attended  by  a lion,  or  Vio- 
lence, which  makes  her  dreaded  wherever  she  comes ; and 
when  she  enters  the  mart  of  Superstition,  this  Lion  tears 
Kirkrapine  in  pieces:  showing  how  Truth,  separated  from  God- 
liness, does  indeed  put  an  end  to  the  abuses  of  Superstition, 
but  does  so  violently  and  desperately.  She  then  meets  again 
with  Hypocrisy,  whom  she  mistakes  for  her  own  lord,  or  Godly 
Fear,  and  travels  a little  way  under  his  guardianship  (Hypocrisy 
thus  not  unfrequently  appearing  to  defend  the  Truth),  until 
they  are  both  met  by  Lawlessness,  or  the  Knight  Sans  Loy, 
Avhom  Hypocrisy  cannot  resist.  Lawlessness  overthrows  Hypoc- 
risy', and  seizes  upon  Truth,  first  slaying  her  lion  attendant : 
showing  that  the  first  aim  of  licence  is  to  destroy  the  force  and 
authority  of  Truth.  Sans  Loy  then  takes  Truth  captive,  and 
bears  her  away.  Kow  this  Lawlessness  is  the  unrighteous- 
ness,’’ or  ^^adikia,”  of  St.  Paul;  and  his  bearing  Truth  away 
captive,  is  a type  of  those  who  hold  the  truth  in  unrighteous- 
ness,”— that  is  to  say,  generally,  of  men  who,  knowing  what  is 
true,  make  the  truth  give  v/ay  to  their  own  purposes,  or  use  it 
only  to  forward  them,  as  is  tlie  case  with  so  many  of  the  popu- 
lar leaders  of  the  preseut  day.  Una  is  then  delivered  from  Sans 


APPEKDIX,  2. 


20? 


Loy  by  the  satyrs,  to  show  that  Nature,  in  the  end,  must  work 
out  the  deliverance  of  the  truth,  although,  where  it  has  been 
captive  to  Lawlessness,  that  deliverance  can  only  be  obtained 
through  Savageness,  and  a return  to  barbarism.  Una  is  then 
taken  from  among  the  satyrs  by  Satyrane,  the  son  of  a satyr  and 
a ^'ladymyld,  fair  Thyamis,’'  (typifying  the  early  steps  of  re- 
newed civilization,  and  its  rough  and  hardy  character  nousled 
up  in  life  and  manners  wilde,’’)  who,  meeting  again  with  Sans 
Loy,  enters  instantly  into  rough  and  prolonged  combat  with 
him  : showing  how  the  early  organization  of  a hardy  nation 
must  be  wrought  out  through  much  discouragement  from  Law- 
lessness. This  contest  the  poet  leaving  for  the  tinie  undecided, 
returns  to  trace  the  adventures  of  the  Eedcrosse  Knight,  or 
Godly  Fear,  who,  having  vanquished  Infidelity,  presently  is  led 
by  Falsehood  to  the  house  of  Pride : thus  showing  how  religion, 
separated  from  truth,  is  first  tempted  by  doubts  of  God,  and 
then  by  the  pride  of  life.  The  description  of  this  house  of 
Pride  is  one  of  the  most  elaborate  and  noble  pieces  in  the  poem; 
and  here  we  begin  to  get  at  the  proposed  system  of  Virtues  and 
Vices.  For  Pride,  as  queen,  has  six  other  vices  yoked  in  her 
chariot ; namely,  first.  Idleness,  then  Gluttony,  Lust,  Avarice, 
Envy,  and  Anger,  all  driven  on  by  ^^Sathan,  with  a smarting 
whip  in  hand.”  From  these  lower  vices  and  their  comj^any. 
Godly  Fear,  though  lodging  in  the  house  of  Pride,  holds  aloof ; 
but  he  is  challenged,  and  has  a hard  battle  to  fight  with  Sans 
Joy,  the  brother  of  Sans  Foy  : showing,  that  though  he  has 
conquered  Infidelity,  and  does  not  give  himself  up  to  the  allure- 
ments of  Pride,  he  is  yet  exposed,  so  long  as  he  dwells  in  her 
house,  to  distress  of  mind  and  loss  of  his  accustomed  rejoicing 
before  God.  He,  however,  having  partly  conquered  Despond- 
ency, or  Sans  Joy,  Falsehood  goes  down  to  Hades,  in  order  to 
obtain  drugs  to  maintain  the  power  or  life  of  Despondency ; 
but,  meantime,  the  Knight  leaves  the  house  of  Pride  : False- 
hood pursues  and  overtakes  him,  and  finds  him  by  a fountain 
side,  of  which  the  waters  are 

Dull  and  slow, 

And  all  that  drinke  thereof  do  faint  and  feeble  grow/' 

Of  which  the  meaning  is,  that  Godly  Fear,  after  passing  through 
the  house  of  Pride,  is  exposed  to  drowsiness  and  feebleness  of 


208 


A1M‘KM)IX^  2. 


watcli  ; as,  after  Peter’s  boast,  came  Peter’s  sleeping,  from 
weakness  of  the  flesh,  and  then,  last  of  all,  Peter’s  fall.  And  so 
it  follows  : for  the  Kedcrosse  Knight,  being  oYercome  with  faiiit- 
ness  by  drinking  of  the  fountain,  is  thereupon  attacked  by  the 
giant  Orgoglio,  overcome  and  thrown  by  him  into  a dungeon. 
This  Orgoglio  is  Orgueil,  or  Carnal  Pride;  not  the  pride  of  life, 
spiritual  and  subtle,  but  the  common  and  vulgar  pride  in  the 
])ower  of  this  world:  and  his  throwing  the  Kedcrosse  Knight 
into  a dungeon,  is  a type  of  the  captivity  of  true  religion  under 
the  temporal  power  of  corrupt  ciiurches,  more  especially  of  the 
Church  of  Rome  ; and  of  its  gradually  wasting  away  in  un- 
known places,  while  carnal  pride  has  the  preeminence  over  all 
things.  That  Spenser  means,  especially,  the  pride  of  the 
Papacy,  is  shown  by  the  16th  stanza  of  the  book ; for  there  the 
giant  Orgoglio  is  said  to  have  taken  Duessa,  or  Falsehood,  for 
his  deare,”  and  to  have  set  upon  her  head  a triple  crown,  and 
endowed  her  with  royal  majesty,  and  made  her  to  ride  upon  a 
seven-headed  beast. 

In  the  meantime,  the  dwarf,  the  attendant  of  the  Kedcrosse 
Knight,  takes  his  arms,  and  finding  Una  tells  her  of  the  captiv- 
ity of  her  lord.  Una,  in  the  midst  of  her  mourning,  meets 
Prince  Arthur,  in  whom,  as  Spenser  himself  tells  us,  is  set  forth 
generally  Magnificence;  but  who,  as  is  shown  by  the  choice  of 
the  hero’s  name,  is  more  especially  the  magnificence,  or  literally, 
great  doing”  of  the  kingdom  of  England.  This  power  of 
England,  going  forth  with  Truth,  attacks  Orgoglio,  or  the 
Pride  of  Papacy,  slays  him  ; strips  Duessa,  or  Falsehood,  naked; 
and  liberates  the  Kedcrosse  Knight.  The  magnificent  and  well- 
laiown  description  of  Despair  follows,  by  whom  the  Kedcrosse 
Knight  is  hard  bested,  on  account  of  his  past  errors  and  caj)- 
tivity,  and  is  only  saved  by  Truth,  who,  perceiving  him  to  be 
still  feeble,  brings  him  to  the  house  of  Coelia,  called,  in  the  ar- 
gument of  the  c<anto,  Holiness,  but  properly.  Heavenly  Grace, 
the  mother  of  the  Virtues.  Her  three  daughters,  well  up- 
brought,”  are  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity.  Her  porter  is  Hu- 
mility ; because  Humility  opens  the  door  of  Heavenly  Grace. 
Zeal  and  Reverence  are  her  chamberlains,  introducing  the  new 
comers  to  her  presence;  her  groom,  or  servant,  is  Obedience; 
and  her  physician,  Patience.  Under  the  commands  of  Charit^^ 


APPEXDIX,  o. 


209 


tlie  matron  Mercy  rules  oyer  her  liospital,  under  whose  caredhe 
Knight  is  healed  of  his  sickness  ; and  it  is  to  he  especially 
noticed  how  much  importance  Spenser,  though  never  ceasing  to 
chastise  all  hypocrisies  and  mere  observances  of  form,  attaches 
to  true  and  faithful  penance  in  effecting  this  cure.  Having  his, 
strength  restored  to  him,  the  Knight  is  trusted  to  the  guidance, 
of  Mercy,  who,  leading  him  forth  by  a narrow  and  thorny  way, 
hrst  instructs  him  in  the  seven  works  of  Mercy,  and.  then  leads 
him  to  the  hill  of  Heavenly  Contemplation  ; whence,  having  a 
sight  of  the  Kew  Jerusalem,  as  Christian  of  the  Delectable 
Mountains,  he  goes  forth  to  the  final  victory  over  Satan,  the  old 
serpent,  with  which  the  book  closes. 

3.  AUSTRIAN  GOVERNMENT  IN  ITALY. 

I cannot  close  these  volumes  without  expressing  my  astonish- 
ment and  regret  at  the  facility  with  which  the  English  allow 
themselves  to  be  misled  by  any  representations,  however  openly 
groundless  or  ridiculous,  proceeding  from  the  Italian  Liberal 
party,  respecting  the  present  administration  of  the  Austrian 
Government.  I do  not  choose  here  to  enter  into  any  political 
discussion,  or  express  any  political  opinion  ; but  it  is  due  , to 
justice  to  state  the  simple  facts  which  came  under  my  notice 
during  my  residence  in  Italy.  I was  living  at  Venice  through 
two  entire  winters,  and  in  the  habit  of  familiar  association  both 
with  Italians  and  Austrians,  my  own  antiquarian  vocations  ren- 
dering such  association  possible  without  exciting  the  distrust  of 
either  party.  During  this  whole  period,  I never  once  was  able 
to  ascertain,  from  any  liberal  Italian,  that  he  had  a single 
definite  ground  of  complaint  against  the  Government.  There 
was  much  general  grumbling  and  vague  discontent;  but  I never 
was  able  to  bring  one  of  them  to  the  point,  or  to  discover  what 
it  was  that  they  wanted,  or  in  what  way  they  felt  themselves 
injured  ; nor  did  I ever  myself  witness  an  instance  of  oppression 
on  the  part  of  the  Government,  though  several  of  much  kindr 
ness  and  consideration.  The  indignation  of  those  of  my  own 
countrymen  and  countrywomen  whom  I happened  to  see  during 
their  sojourn  in  Venice  was  always  vivid,  but  by  no  means  large 
in  its  grounds.  English  ladies  on  their  first  arrival  invariably 


210 


APPENDIX^  3. 


began  the  conversation  with  the  same  remark  : What  a dread- 

ful thing  it  was  to  be  ground  under  the  iron  heel  of  despotism!’’ 
Upon  closer  inquiries  it  always  appeared  that  being  ground 
under  the  heel  of  despotism”  was  a poetical  expression  for  being 
asked  for  one’s  passport  at  San  Juliano,  and  required  to  fetch  it 
from  San  Lorenzo,  full  a mile  and  a quarter  distant.  In  like 
manner,  travellers,  after  two  or  three  days’  residence  in  the  city, 
used  to  return  with  pitiful  lamentations  over  ^^the  misery  of  the 
Italian  people.”  Upon  inquiring  what  instances  they  had  met 
with  of  this  misery,  it  invariably  turned  out  that  their  gondo- 
liers, after  being  paid  three  times  their  proper  fare,  had  asked 
for  something  to  drink,  and  had  attributed  the  fact  of  their 
being  thirsty  to  the  Austrian  Government.  The  misery  of  the 
Italians  consists  in  having  three  festa  days  a week,  and  doing 
in  their  days  of  exertion  about  one  fourth  as  much  work  as  an 
English  laborer. 

There  is,  indeed,  much  true  distress  occasioned  by  the  meas- 
ures which  the  Government  is  sometimes  compelled  to  take  in 
order  to  repress  sedition;  but  the  blame  of  this  lies  with  those 
whose  occupation  is  the  excitement  of  sedition.  So  also  there  is 
much  grievous  harm  done  to  works  of  art  by  the  occupation  of 
the  country  by  so  large  an  army  ; but  for  the  mode  in  which 
that  army  is  quartered,  the  Italian  municipalities  are  answerable, 
not  the  Austrians.  Whenever  I was  shocked  by  finding,  as 
above-mentioned  at  Milan,  a cloister,  or  a palace,  occupied  by 
soldiery,  I always  discovered,  on  investigation,  that  the  place 
had  been  given  by  the  municipality  ; and  that,  beyond  requiring 
that  lodging  for  a certain  number  of  men  should  be  found  in 
siicli  and  such  a quarter  of  the  town,  the  Austrians  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  matter.  This  does  not,  however,  make  the  mis- 
chief less  ; and  it  is  strange,  if  we  think  of  it,  to  see  Italy,  with 
all  her  precious  works  of  art,  made  a continual  battle-field ; as 
if  no  otlier  place  for  settling  their  disputes  could  be  found  by 
the  European  powers,  than  where  every  random  shot  may  de- 
stroy what  a king’s  ransom  cannot  restore.*  It  is  exactly  as  if 

* In  the  bomhardment  of  Venice  in  1848,  hardh^  a single  palace  escaped 
without  three  or  four  balls  tlirough  its  roof  : three  came  into  the  Scuola  di 
San  Rocco,  tearing  their  way  through  the  pictures  of  Tintoret,  of  which 
the  ragged  fragments  were  still  hanging  from  the  ceiling  in  1851;  and  tlu‘ 


APPEXDIX,  4. 


2ri 

the  tumults  in  Paris  could  be  settled  no  otherwise  than  by  fight- 
ing them  out  in  the  Gallery  of  the  Louvre. 

4.  DATE  OF  THE  PALACES  OF  THE  BYZAKTIKE  REKAISSAXCE. 

In  the  sixth  article  of  the  Appendix  to  the  first  volume,  the 
question  of  the  date  of  the  Casa  Dario  and  Casa  Trevisan  was 
deferred  until  I could  obtain  from  my  friend  Mr.  Kawdon 
Brown,  to  whom  the  former  palace  once  belonged,  some  more 
distinct  data  respecting  this  subject  than  I possessed  myself. 

Speaking  first  of  the  Casa  Dario,  he  says  : Fontana  dates 

it  from  about  the  year  1450,  and  considers  it  the  earliest  speci- 
men of  the  architecture  founded  by  Pietro  Lombardo,  and  fol- 
lowed by  his  sons,  Tullio  and  Antonio.  In  a Sanuto  autograph 
miscellany,  purchased  by  me  long  ago,  and  which  I gave  to  St. 
Mark’s  Library,  are  two  letters  from  Giovanni  Dario,  dated  10th 
and  11th  July,  1485,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Adrianople ; where 
the  Turkish  camp  found  itself,  and  Bajazet  II.  received  jiresents 
from  the  Soldan  of  Egypt,  from  the  Schah  of  the  Indies  (query 
Grand  Mogul),  and  from  the  King  of  Hungary:  of  these  mat' 
ters,  Dario’s  letters  give  many  curious  details.  Then,  in  the 
'printed  Malipiero  Annals,  page  136  (which  err,  I think,  by  a 
year),  the  Secretary  Dario’s  negotiations  at  the  Porte  are  alluded 
to;  and  in  date  of  1484  he  is  stated  to  have  returned  to  Venice, 
having  quarrelled  with  the  Venetian  bailiff  at  Constantinople: 
the  annalist  adds,  that  ' Giovanni  Dario  was  a native  of  Candia, 
and  that  the  Kepublic  was  so  well  satisfied  with  him  for  having 
concluded  peace  with  Bajazet,  that  he  received,  as  a gift  from  his 
country,  an  estate  at  Koventa,  in  the  Paduan  territory,  worth 
1500  ducats,  and  600  ducats  in  cash  for  the  dower  of  one  of  his 
daughters.’  These  largesses  probably  enabled  him  to  build  his 
house  about  the  year  1486,  and  are  doubtless  hinted  at  in  the 
inscription,  which  I restored  A.  d.  1837;  it  had  no  date,  and 
ran  thus,  urbis  . genio  . Joannes  . dariys.  In  the  Venetian 
history  of  Paolo  Morosini,  page  594,  it  is  also  mentioned,  that 
Giovanni.Dario  was,  moreover,  the  Secretary  who  concluded  the 

shells  had  reached  to  within  a hundred  yards  of  St.  Mark’s  Church  itself^ 
at  the  time  of  the  capitulation. 


212 


APPENDIX^  5. 


peace  between  Mahomet^  the  conqueror  of  Constantinople^  and 
Venice,  a.d.  1478;  but,  unless  he  build  his  house  by  proxy, 
that  date  has  nothing  to  do  with  it ; and  ipx  my  mind,  the  fact 
of  the  present,  and  the  inscription,  Avarrant  one’s  dating  it  1486, 
and  not  1450. 

^^The  Trevisan-Cappello  House,  in  Canorica,  was  once  the 
property  (a.d.  1578)  of  a Venetian  damC;,  fond  of  cray-fish,  ac- 
cording to  a letter  of  hers  in  the  archives,  whereby  she  thanks 
one  of  her  lovers  for  some  which  he  had  sent  her  from  Treviso 
to  Florence,  of  which  she  Avas  then  Grand  Duchess.  Her  name 
has  perhaps  found  its  way  into  the  English  annuals.  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  Bianca  Oappello  ? She  bought  that  house  of  the 
Trevisana  family,  by  whom  Selva  (in  Cicognara)  and  Fontana 
(following  Selva)  say  it  was  ordered  of  the  Lombardi,  at  the 
commencement  of  the  sixteenth  century  : but  the  inscription  on 
its  fagade,  thus. 


reminding  one  both  of  the  Dario  House,  and'  of  the  Avords 
KOBis  DOMiKE  inscribed  on  the  fa9ade  of  the  Loredano  Ven- 
dramin  Palace  at  S.  Marcuola  (noAV  the  property  of  the  Duchess 
of  Berri),  of  which  Selva  found  proof  in  the  Vendramin  Archives 
that  it  was  commenced  by  Sante  Lombardo,  a.d.  1481,  is  in 
favor  of  its  being  classed  among  the  works  of  the  fifteenth 
century.’^ 


In  passing  along  the  Eio  del  Palazzo  the  traveller  ought 
especially  to  observe  the  base  of  the  Eenaissance  building,  formed 
by  alternately  depressed  and  raised  pyramids,  the  depressed  por- 
tions being  casts  of  the  projecting  ones,  which  are  truncated  on 
the  summits.  The  work  cannot  be  called  rustication,  for  it  is 
cut  as  sharply  and  delicately  as  a piece  of  ivory,  but  it  thor- 
oughly answers  the  end  Avhich  rustication  proposes,  and  misses  : 
it  gives  the  base  of  the  building  a look  of  crystalline  hardness, 
actually  resembling,  and  that  .very  closely,  the  appearance  pi*e- 
sented  by  the  fracture  of  a piece  of  cap  quartz;  AAdiile  yet  the 


SOLI 

DEO 


II  HOJIOK.  ET 
II  oloeia. 


5.  EEKAISSAKCE  SIDE  OF  DUCAL  PALACE. 


APPENDIX^  G. 


light  and  shade  of  its  alternate  recesses  and  projections  are  so 
varied  as  to  produce  the  utmost  possible  degree  of  delight  to 
the  eye,  attainable  by  a geometrical  pattern  so  simple.  Yet, 
with  all  this  high  merit,  it  is  not  a base  which  could  be  brought 
into  general  use.  Its  brilliancy  and  piquancy  are  here  set  off 
with  exquisite  skill  by  its  opposition  to  mouldings,  in  the  upper 
part  of  tlie  building,  of  an  almost  effeminate  delicacy,  and  its 
com]3lexity  is  rendered  delightful  by  its  contrast  with  the  ruder 
bases  of  the  other  buildings  of  the  city ; but  it  would  look 
meagre  if  it  were  employed  to  sustain  bolder  masses  above,  and 
would  become  wearisome  if  the  eye  were  once  thoroughly  famil- 
iarized with  it  by  repetition. 

6.  CHARACTER  OF  THE  DOGE  MICHELE  MOROSIMI. 

The  following  extracts  from  the  letter  of  Count  Charles 
Morosini,  above  mentioned,  appear  to  set  the  question  at  rest. 

^^It  is  our  unhappy  destiny  that,  during  the  glory  of  the 
Venetian  republic,  no  one  took  the  care  to  leave  us  a faithful 
and  conscientious  history  : but  I hardly  know  whether  this  mis- 
fortune should  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  the  historians  tbemselves, 
or  of  those  commentators  who  have  destroyed  their  trustworthi- 
ness by  new  accounts  of  things,  invented  by  themselves.  As  for 
the  poor  Morosini,  we  may  perhaps  save  his  honor  by  assembling 
a conclave  of  our  historians,  in  order  to  receive  their  united 
sentence;  for,  in  this  case,  he  would  have  the  absolute  majority 
on  his  side,,  nearly  all  the  authors  bearing  testimony  to  his  love 
for  his  country  and  to  the  magnanimity  of  his  heart.  I must 
tell  you  that  the  history  of  Daru  is  not  looked  upon  with  esteem 
by  well-informed  men;  and  it  is  said  that  he  seems  to  have  no 
other  object  in  view  than  to  obscure  the  glory  of  all  actions.  I 
know  not  on  what  authority  the  English  writer  depends ; but 
he  has,  perhaps,  merely  copied  the  statement  of  Daru.  . . . . 
I have  consulted  an  aneient  and  authentic  MS.  belonging  to  the 
Yenieri  family,  a MS.  well  known,  and  certainly  better  worthy 
of  confidenee  than  Darn’s  history,  and  it  says  nothing  of  M. 
Morosini  but  that  he  was  elected  Doge  to  the  delight  and  joy  of 
all  men.  Neither  do  the  Savina  or  Dolfin  Chronicles  say  a word 
of  the  shameful  speculation;  and  our  best  informed  men  say 


2U 


APPEXDIX^  7. 


that  the  reproach  cast  by  some  historians  against  the  I)ogc  per^ 
haps  arose  from  a mistaken  interpretation  of  the  words  pro- 
nounced by  him,  and  reported  by  Marin  Sanuto,  that  the  spec- 
ulation would  sooner  or  later  have  been  advantageous  to  the 
country.’  But  this  single  consideration  is  enough  to  induce  us 
to  form  a favorable  conclusion  respecting  the  honor  of  this  man, 
namely,  that  he  was  not  elected  Doge  until  after  he  had  been 
entrusted  with  many  honorable  embassies  to  the  Genoese  and 
Carrarese,  as  well  as  to  the  King  of  Hungary  and  Amadeus  of 
Savoy;  and  if  in  these  embassies  he  had  not  shown  himself  a 
true  lover  of  his  country,  the  republic  not  only  would  not  again, 
have  entrusted  him  with  offices  so  honorable,  but  would  never 
have  rewarded  him  with  the  dignity  of  Doge,  therein  to  succeed 
such  a man  as  Andrea  Contarini:  and  the  war  of  Chioggia, 
during  which  it  is  said  that  he  tripled  his  fortune  by  specula- 
tions, took  place  during  the  reign  of  Contarini,  1379,  1380, 
while  Morosini  was  absent  on  foreign  embassies.” 

7.  MODERN"  EDUCATIOXr. 

The  following  fragmentary  notes  on  this  subject  have  been 
set  down  at  different  times.  I have  been  accidentally  prevented 
from  arranging  them  properly  for  publication,  but  there  are  one 
or  two  truths  in  them  which  it  is  better  to  express  insufficiently 
than  not  at  all. 

By  a large  body  of  the  people  of  England  and  of  Europe  a 
man  is  called  educated  if  he  can  write  Latin  verses  and  construe 
a Greek  chorus.  By  some  few  more  enlightened  persons  it  is 
confessed  that  the  construction  of  hexameters  is  not  in  itself  an 
important  end  of  human  existence;  but  they  say,  that  the  gen- 
eral discipline  which  a course  of  classical  reading  gives  to  the 
intellectual  powers,  is  the  final  object  of  our  scholastical  institu- 
tions. 

Ifiit  it  seems  to  me,  there  is  no  small  error  even  in  this  last 
and  more  philosophical  theory.  I believe,  that  what  it  is  most 
honorable  to  know,  it  is  also  most  profitable  to  learn;  and  that 
the  science  which  it  is  the  highest  power  to  possess,  it  is  also  the 
best  exercise  to  acquire. 


APrE^NDlX,  7. 


215 


And  if  this  be  so,  the  question  as  to  what  should  be  the  ma- 
teriel of  education,  becomes  singularly  simplified.  It  might  be 
matter  of  dispute  what  processes  have  the  greatest  etfect  in  de- 
veloping the  intellect;  but  it  can  hardly  be  disputed  what  facts 
it  is  most  advisable  that  a man  entering  into  life  should  accu- 
rately know. 

I believe,  in  brief,  that  he  ought  to  know  three  things: 

First.  Where  he  is. 

Secondly.  Where  he  is  going. 

Thirdly.  What  he  had  best  do,  under  those  circumstances. 

First.  Where  he  is. — That  is  to  say,  what  sort  of  a world  he 
has  got  into;  how  large  it  is  ; what  kind  of  creatures  live  in  it, 
and  how;  what  it  is  made  of,  and  what  may  be  made  of  it. 

Secondly.  Where  he  is  going. — That  is  to  say,  what  chances 
or  reports  there  are  of  any  other  world  besides  this;  what  seems 
to  be  the  nature  of  that  other  world;  and  whether,  for  informa- 
tion respecting  it,  he  had  better  consult  the  Bible,  Koran,  or 
Council  of  Trent. 

Thirdly.  What  he  had  best  do  under  those  circumstances. — 
That  is  to  say,  what  kind  of  faculties  he  possesses;  what  are  the 
present  state  and  wants  of  mankind;  what  is  his  place  in 
society;  and  what  are  the  readiest  means  in  his  power  of  attain- 
ing happiness  and  diffusing  it.  The  man  who  knows  these 
things,  and  who  has  had  his  will  so  subdued  in  the  learning 
them,  that  he  is  ready  to  do  what  he  knows  he  ought,  I should 
call  educated;  and  the  man  who  knows  them  not, — uneducated, 
though  he  could  talk  all  the  tongues  of  Babel. 

Our  present  European  system  of  so-called  education  ignores, 
or  despises,  not  one,  nor  the  other,  but  all  the  three^  of  these 
great  branches  of  human  knowledge. 

First : It  despises  Natural  History. — Until  within  the  last 
year  or  two,  the  instruction  in  the  physical  sciences  given  at 
Oxford  consisted  of  a course  of  twelve  or  fourteen  lectures  on 
the  Elements  of  Mechanics  or  Pneumatics,  and  permission  to 
ride  out  to  Shotover  with  the  Professor  of  Geology.  I do  not 
know  the  specialties  of  the  system  pursued  in  the  academies  of 
the  Continent;  but  their  practical  result  is,  that  unless  a man’s 
natural  instincts  urge  him  to  the  pursuit  of  the  physical  sciences 
too  strongly  to  be  resisted,  he  enters  into  life  utterly  ignorant  of 


APPENDIX,  7. 


.lU 


them.  I cannot,  within  my  present  limits,  even  so  much  as 
count  tlie  various  directions  in  which  this  ignorance  does  evil. 
But  the  main  mischief  of  it  is,  that  it  leaves  the  greater  number 
of  men  witliout  tlie  natural  food  which  God  intended  for  their 
intellects.  For  one  man  who  is  fitted  for  the  study  of  words, 
fifty  are  fitted  for  the  study  of  things,  and  were  intended  to 
liave  a perpetual,  simple,  and  religious  delight  in  watching  the 
processes,  or  admiring  the  creatures,  of  the  natural  universe. 
Deprived  of  this  source  of  pleasure,  nothing  is  left  to  them  but 
ambition  or  dissipation  ; and  the  vices  of  the  upper  classes  of 
Europe  are,  I believe,  chiefly  to  be  attributed  to  this  single 
cause. 

Secondly  : It  despises  Keligion. — I do  not  say  it  despises 
Theology,”  that  is  to  say.  Talk  about  God.  But  it  despises 
Religion;”  that  is  to  say,  the  binding”  or  training  to  God’s 
service.  There  is  much  talk  and  much  teaching  in  all  our 
academies,  of  which  the  effect  is  not  to  bind,  but  to  loosen,  the 
elements  of  religious  faith.  Of  the  ten  or  twelve  young  men 
who,  at  Oxford,  were  my  especial  friends,  who  sat  with  me 
under  the  same  lectures  on  Divinity,  or  were  punished  with  me 
for  missing  lecture  by  being  sent  to  evening  prayers,*  four  are 
now  zealous  Romanists, — a large  average  out  of  twelve ; and 
while  thus  our  own  universities  profess  to  teach  Protestantism, 
and  do  not,  the  universities  on  the  Continent  profess  to  teach 
Romanism,  and  do  not, — sending  forth  only  rebels  and  infidels. 
During  long  residence  on  the  Continent,  I do  not  remember 
meeting  with  above  two  or  three  young  men,  who  either  believed  - 
in  revelation,  or  had  the  grace  to  hesitate  in  the  assertion  of 
their  infidelity. 

Whence,  it  seems  to  me,  we  may  gather  one  of  two  things; 
either  that  there  is  nothing  in  any  European  form  of  religion  so 
reasonable  or  ascertained,  as  that  it  can  be  taught  securely  to 
our  youth,  or  fastened  in  their  minds  by  any  rivets  of  proof 
which  they  shall  not  be  able  to  loosen  the  moment  they  begin  to 
think  ; or  else,  that  no  means  are  taken  to  train  them  in  such 
demonstrable  creeds. 

It  seems  to  me  the  duty  of  a rational  nation  to  ascertain  (and 

* A Mohammedan  youth  is  punished,  1 believe,  for  such  misdemeanors, 
by  being  kepi  aicap  from  prayers. 


APPENDIX^  7. 


21? 


to  be  at  some  pains  in  the  matter)  which  of  these  suppositions  is 
true;  and^  if  indeed  no  proof  can  be  given  of  any  supernatural 
fact,  or  Divine  doctrine,  stronger  than  a youth  just  out  of  his 
teens  can  overthrow  in  the  first  stirrings  of  serious  thought,  to 
confess  this  boldly ; to  get  rid  of  the  expense  of  an  Establish- 
ment, and  the  hypocrisy  of  a Liturgy ; to  exhibit  its  cathedrals 
as  curious  memorials  of  a by-gone  suj)erstition,  and,  abandoning 
all  thoughts  of  the  next  world,  to  set  itself  to  make  the  best  it 
can  of  this. 

But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  there  does  exist  any  evidence  by 
which  the  probability  of  certain  religious  facts  may  be  shown,  as 
clearly,  even,  as  the  probabilities  of  things  not  absolutely  ascer- 
tained in  astroliomical  or  geological  science,  let  this  evidence  be 
set  before  all  our  youth  so  distinctly,  and  the  facts  for  which  it 
appears  inculcated  upon  them  so  steadily,  that  although  it  may 
be  possible  for  the  evil  conduct  of  after  life  to  efface,  or  for  its 
earnest  and  protracted  meditation  to  modify,  the  impressions  of 
early  years,  it  may  not  be  possible  for  our  young  men,  the  in- 
stant they  emerge  from  their  academies,  to  scatter  themselves 
like  a flock  of  wild  fowl  risen  out  of  a marsh,  and  drift  away  on 
every  irregular  wind  of  heresy  and  apostasy. 

Lastly  : Our  system  of  European  education  despises  Politics. 
— That  is  to  say,  the  science  of  the  relations  and  duties  of  men 
to  each  other.  One  would  imagine,  indeed,  by  a glance  at  the 
state  of  the  world,  that  there  was  no  such  science.  And,  indeed, 
it  is  one  still  in  its  infancy. 

It  implies,  in  its  full  sense,  tfte  knowledge  of  the  operations 
of  the  virtues  and  vices  of  men  upon  themselves  and  society; 
the  understanding  of  the  ranks  and  offices  of  their  intellectual 
and  bodily  powers  in  their  various  adaptations  to  art,  science, 
and  industry;  the  understanding  of  the  proper  offices  of  art, 
science,  and  labor  themselves,  as  well  as  of  the  foundations  of 
jurisprudence,  and  broad  principles  of  commerce ; all  this  being 
coupled  with  practical  knowledge  of  the  present  state  and  wants 
of  mankind. 

What,  it  will  be  said,  and  is  all  this  to  be  taught  to  school- 
boys ? No ; but  the  first  elements  of  it,  all  that  are  necessary 
to  be  known  by  an  individual  in  order  to  his  acting  wisely  in 
any  station  of  life,  might  be  taught,  not  only  to  every  school- 


APPENDIX,  7. 


boy,  but  to  eveiy  peasant.  The  impossibility  of  equality  among 
men  ; the  good  which  arises  from  their  inequality ; the  compen- 
sating circumstances  in  different  states  and  fortunes;  the  honor- 
ableness of  every  man  who  is  worthily  filling  his  appointed  place 
in  society,  however  humble;  the  proper  relations  of  poor  and 
rich,  governor  and  governed;  the  nature  of  wealth,  and  mode 
of  its  circulation;  the  difference  between  productive  and  unpro- 
ductive labor;  the  relation  of  the  products  of  the  mind  and 
hand  ; the  true  value  of  works  of  the  higher  arts,  and  the  possi- 
ble amount  of  their  production;  the  meaning  of  Civilization,” 
its  advantages  and  dangers  ; the  meaning  of  the  term  ^‘Kefine- 
ment ;”  the  possibilities  of  jiossessing  refinement  in  alow  station, 
and  of  losing  it  in  a high  one;  and,  above  all,  the  significance 
of  almost  every  act  of  a man’s  daily  life,  in  its  ultimate  opera- 
tion upon  himself  and  others; — all  this  might  be,  and  ought 
to  be,  taught  to  every  boy  in  the  kingdom,  so  completely,  that 
it  should  be  just  as  impossible  to  introduce  an  absurd  or  licen- 
tious doctrine  among  our  adult  population,  as  a new  version  of 
the  multiplication  table.  ISTor  am  I altogether  without  hope 
that  some  day  it  may  enter  into  the  heads  of  the  tutors  of  our 
schools  to  try  whether  it  is  not  as  easy  to  make  an  Efon  boy’s 
mind  as  sensitive  to  falseness  in  policy,  as  his  ear  is  at  present 
to  falseness  in  prosody. 

I know  that  this  is  much  to  hope.  That  English  ministers 
of  relia'ion  should  ever  come  to  desire  rather  to  make  a vouth 
acquainted  with  the  powers  of  nature  and  of  God,  than  witli 
the  powers  of  Greek  particles  ; that  they  should  ever  think  it 
more  useful  to  show  him  how  the  great  universe  rolls  upon  its 
course  in  heaven,  than  how  the  syllables  are  fitted  in  a tragic 
metre  ; that  they  should  hold  it  more  advisable  for  him  to  be 
fixed  in  the  principles  of  religion  than  in  those  of  syntax ; or, 
finally,  that  they  should  ever  come  to  apprehend  that  a youth 
likely  to  go  straight  out  of  college  into  parliament,  might  not 
unadvisably  know  as  much  of  the  Peninsular  as  of  the  Pelopon- 
nesian War,  and  be  as  well  acquainted  with  the  state  of  Modern 
Italy  as  of  old  Etruria; — all  this  however  unreasonably,  I do 
hope,  and  mean  to  work  for.  Eor  though  I have  not  yet  aban- 
doned all  expectation  of  a better  world  than  this,  I believe  tliis 
in  which  we  live  is  not  so  good  as  it  might  be,  I know  there  are 


APPE^TDIX^  7. 


219 


many  people  who  suppose  French  revolutions,  Italian  insurrec- 
tions, Catfre  wars,  and  such  other  scenic  effects  of  modern 
policy,  to  be  among  the  normal  conditions  of  humanity.  I 
know  there  are  many  who  think  the  atmosphere  of  rapine,  re- 
bellion, and  misery  which  wraps  the  lower  orders  of  Europe 
more  closely  every  day,  is  as  natural  a phenomenon  as  a hot 
summer.  But  God  forbid  ! There  are  ills  which  flesh  is  heir 
to,  and  troubles  to  which  man  is  born;  but  the  troubles  which 
he  is  born  to  are  as  sparks  which  fly  upward,  not  as  flames  burn- 
ing to  the  nethermost  Hell.  The  Poor  we  must  have  with  us 
always,  and  sorrow  is  inseparable  from  any  hour  of  life;  but  we 
may  make  their  poverty  such  as  shall  inherit  the  earth,  and  the 
sorrow,  such  as  shall  be  hallowed  by  the  hand  of  the  Comforter, 
with  everlasting  comfort.  We  can,  if  we  will  but  shake  off  this 
lethargy  and  dreaming  that  is  upon  us,  and  take  the  pains  to 
think  and  act  like  men,  we  can,  I say,  make  kingdoms  to  be 
like  well-governed  households,  in  which,  indeed,  while  no  care 
or  kindness  can  prevent  occasional  heart-burnings,  nor  any  fore- 
sight or  piety  anticipate  all  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  or  avert 
every  stroke  of  calamity,  yet  the  unity  of  their  affection  and 
fellowship  remains  unbroken,  and  their  distress  is  neither  em- 
bittered by  division,  prolonged  by  imprudence,  nor  darkened  by 
dishonor. 

The  great  leading  error  of  modern  times  is  the  mistaking 
erudition  for  education.  I call  it  the  leading  error,  for  I believe 
that,  with  little  difficulty,  nearly  every  other  might  be  showm  to 
have  root  in  it ; and,  most  assuredly,  the  worst  that  are  fallen 
into  on  the  subject  of  art. 

Education  then,  briefly,  is  the  leading  human  souls  to  what 
is  best,  and  making  what  is  best  out  of  them  ; and  these  two 
objects  are  always  attainable  together,  and  by  the  same  means; 
the  training  which  makes  men  happiest  in  themselves,  also 
makes  them  most  serviceable  to  others.  True  education,  then, 
has  respect,  first  to  the  ends  which  are  proposable  to  the  man, 
or  attainable  by  him  ; and,  secondly,  to  the  material  of  which 
the  man  is  made.  So  far  as  it  is  able,  it  chooses  the  end  accord- 
ing to  the  material  : but  it  cannot  always  choose  tlie  end,  for 
the  position  of  many  persons  in  life  is  fixed  by  necessity ; still 


220 


APPENDIX,  7. 


less  can  it  choose  the  material;  and,  therefore,  all  it  can  do,  is  ^ 
to  fit  the  one  to  the  other  as  wisely  as  may  be.  j 

But  the  first  point  to  be  understood,  is  that  the  material  is 
as  yarious  as  the  ends ; that  not  only  one  man  is  unlike  another, 
but  every  man  is  essentially  different  from  every  so  that  ! 

no  training,  no  forming,  nor  informing,  will  ever  make  two 
persons  alike  in  thought  or  in  power.  Among  all  men,  whether  ^ 
of  the  upper  or  lower  orders,  the  differences  are  eternal  and  ir-  | 
reconcilable,  between  one  individual  and  another,  born  under 
absolutely  the  same  circumstances.  One  man  is  made  of  agate,  > 
another  of  oak  ; one  of  slate,  another  of  clay.  The  education  of  \ 
the  first  is  polishing ; of  the  second,  seasoning ; of  the  third,  \ 
rending ; of  the  fourth,  moulding.  It  is  of  no  use  to  season  f 
the  agate ; it  is  vain  to  try  to  polish  the  slate ; but  both  are  { 
fitted,  by  the  qualities  they  possess,  for  services  in  which  they  } 
may  be  honored.  i 

Now  the  cry  for  the  education  of  the  lower  classes,  which  is  * 
heard  every  day  more  widely  and  loudly,  is  a wise  and  a sacred 
cry,  provided  it  be  extended  into  one  for  the  education  of  all 
classes,  with  definite  respect  to  the  work  each  man  has  to  do, 
and  the  substance  of  which  he  is  made.  But  it  is  a foolish  and 
vain  cry,  if  it  be  understood,  as  in  the  plurality  of  cases  it  is 
meant  to  be,  for  the  expression  of  mere  craving  after  knowledge, 
irrespective  of  the  simple  purposes  of  the  life  that  now  is,  and 
blessings  of  that,  which  is  to  come. 

One  great  fallacy  into  which  men  are  apt  to  fall  when  they 
are  reasoning  on  this  subject  is  : that  light,  as  such,  is  always 
good  ; and  darkness,  as  such,  always  evil.  Far  from  it.  Light 
untempered  would  be  annihilation.  It  is  good  to  them  that  sit 
in  darkness  and  in  the  shadow  of  death  ; but,  to  those  that  faint 
in  the  wilderness,  so  also  is  the  shadow  of  the  great  rock  in  a 
weary  land.  If  the  sunshine  is  good,  so  also  the  cloud  of  the 
latter  rain.  Light  is  only  beautiful,  only  available  for  life, 
when  it  is  tempered  with  shadow  ; pure  light  is  fearful,  and  un- 
endurable by  humanity.  And  it  is  not  less  ridiculous  to  say 
that  the  light,  as  such,  is  good  in  itself,  than  to  say  that  the 
darkness  is  good  in  itself.  Botli  are  rendered  safe,  healthy, 
and  useful  by  the  other  ; the  night  by  the  day,  the  day  by 
the  night;  and  we  could  just  as  easily  live  without  the  dawn 


APPEJ^DIX^  7. 


221 


as  without  the  sunset,  so  long  as  we  are  human.  Of  the  celes- 
tial city  we  are  told  there  shall  be  ^^no  night  there,”  and  then 
\re  shall  know  even  as  also  we  are  known  : but  the  night  and 
the  mystery  have  both  their  service  here  ; and  our  business  is 
not  to  strive  to  turn  the  night  into  day,  but  to  be  sure  that  we 
are  as  they  that  watch  for  the  morning. 

Therefore,  in  the  education  either  of  lower  or  upper  classes, 
it  matters  not  the  least  how  much  or  how  little  they  know,  pro- 
vided they  know  just  what  will  fit  them  to  do  their  work,  and 
to  be  happy  in  it.  What  the  sum  or  the  nature  of  their  knowl- 
edge ought  to  be  at  a given  time  or  in  a given  case,  is  a totally 
different  question  : the  main  thing  to  be  understood  is,  that  a 
man  is  not  educated,  in  any  sense  whatsoever,  because  he  can 
read  Latin,  .or  write  English,  or  can  behave  well  m a drawing- 
room ; but  that  he  is  only  educated  if  he  is  happy,  busy,  benefi^ 
cent,  and  effective  in  the  world  ; that  millions  of  peasants  are 
therefore  at  this  moment  better  educated  than  most  of  those 
who  call  themselves  gentlemen  ; and  that  the  means  taken  to 
educate”  the  lower  classes  in  any  other  sense  may  very  often 
be  productive  of  a precisely  opposite  result. 

Observe:  I do  not  say,  nor  do  I believe,  that  the  lower  classes 
ought  not  to  be  better  educated,  in  millions  of  ways,  than  they 
are.  I believe  every  man  in  a Christian  hingdom  ought  to  be 
equally  ivell  educated.  But  I would  have  it  education  to  purpose; 
stern,  practical,  irresistible,  in  moral  habits,  in  bodily  strength 
and  beauty,  in  all  faculties  of  mind  capable  of  being  developed 
under  the  circumstances  of  the  individual,  and  especially  in  the 
technical  knowledge  of  his  own  business;  but  yet,  infinitely  vari- 
ous in  its  effort,  directed  to  make  one  youth  humble,  and  another 
confident;  to  tranquillize  this  mind,  to  put  some  si:)ark  of  ambi- 
tion into  that;  now  to  urge,  and  now  to  restrain:  and  in  the 
doing  of  all  this,  considering  knowledge  as  one  only  out  of  myriads 
of  means  in  its  hands,  or  myriads  of  gifts  at  its  disposal;  and 
giving  it  or  withholding  it  as  a good  husbandman  waters  his 
garden,  giving  the  full  shower  only  to  the  thirsty  plants,  and  at 
times  when  they  are  thirsty,  whereas  at  present  we  pour  it  upon 
the  heads  of  our  youth  as  the  snow  falls  on  the  Alps,  on  one  and 
another  alike,  till  they  can  bear  no  more,  and  then  take  honor  to 
ourselves  because  here  and  there  a river  descends  from  their 


222 


APPEi^'DIX,  8. 


crests  into  the  yalleys,  not  observing  that  we  have  made  the 
loaded  hills  themselves  barren  for  ever. 

Finally:  I hold  it  for  indisputable^  that  the  first  duty  of  a 
state  is  to  see  that  every  child  born  therein  shall  be  well  housed, 
clothed,  fed,  and  educated,  till  it  attain  years  of  discretion.  But 
in  order  to  the  effecting  this,  the  government  must  have  an 
authority  over  the  people  of  which  we  now  do  not  so  much  as 
dream;  and  I cannot  in  this  place  pursue  the  subject  farther. 

8.  EAKLY  VENETIAN  MAKKIAGES. 

Galliciolli,  lib.  ii.  § 1757,  insinuates  a doubt  of  the  general 
custom,  saying  it  would  be  m-ore  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
only  twelve  maidens  were  married  in  public  on  St.  Mark’s  day;” 
and  Saudi  also  speaks  of  twelve  only.  All  evidence,  however, 
is  clearly  in  favor  of  the  popular  tradition;  the  most  curious  fact 
connected  with  the  subject  being  the  mention,  by  Herodotus,  of 
the  mode  of  marriage  practised  among  the  Illyrian  Veneti”  of 
his  time,  who  presented  their  maidens  for  marriage  on  one  day 
in  each  year;  and,  with  the  price  paid  for  those  who  were  beau- 
tiful, gave  dowries  to  those  who  had  no  personal  attractions. 

It  is  very  curious  to  find  the  traces  of  this  custom  existing, 
though  in  a softened  form,  in  Christian  times.  Still,  I admit 
that  there  is  little  confidence  to  be  placed  in  the  mere  concur- 
rence of  the  Venetian  Chroniclers,  who,  for  the  most  part,  copied 
from  each  other:  but  the  best  and  most  complete  account  I have 
read,  is  that  quoted  by  Galliciolli  from  the  Matricola  de’  Cas- 
seleri,”  written  in  1449;  and,  in  that  account,  the  words  are 
quite  unmistakable.  It  was  anciently  the  custom  of  Venice, 
that  all  the  brides  (novizze)  of  Venice,  when  they  married,  should 
be  married  by  the  bishop,  in  the  Church  of  S.  Pietro  di  Castello, 
on  St.  Mark’s  day,  which  is  the  31st  of  January.  Eogers  quotes 
Navagiero  to  the  same  effect;  and  Sansovino  is  more  explicit 
still.  It  was  the  custom  to  contract  marriages  openly;  and 
when  the  deliberations  were  completed,  the  damsels  assembled 
ihemselves  in  St.  Pietro  di  Castello,  for  the  feast  of  St.  Mary,  in 
February,  ” 


appekdix^  9. 


223 


9.  CHAKACTER  OE  THE  VENETIAN  ARISTOCRACY. 

The  following  noble  answer  of  a Venetian  ambassador,  Gius- 
tiniani,  on  the  occasion  of  an  insult  offered  him  at  the  court  of 
Henry  the  Eighth,  is  as  illustrative  of  the  dignity  which  there 
yet  remained  in  the  character  and  thoughts  of  the  Venetian 
noble,  as  descriptive,  in  few  words,  of  the  early  faith  and  deeds 
of  his  nation.  He  writes  thus  to  the  Doge,  from  London,  on  tlie 
15th  of  April,  1516: 

^^By  my  last,  in  date  of  the  30th  ult.,  I informed  you  that 
the  countenances  of  some  of  these  lords  evinced  neither  friend- 
ship nor  goodwill,  and  that  much  language  had  been  used  to  mo 
of  a nature  bordering  not  merely  on  arrogance,  but  even  on 
outrage;  and  not  having  specified  this  in  the  foregoing  letters, 
I think  fit  now  to  mention  it  in  detail.  Finding  myself  at  the 
court,  and  talking  familiarly  about  other  matters,  two  lay  lords, 
great  personages  in  this  kingdom,  inquired  of  me  ^ whence  it 
came  that  your  Excellency  was  of  such  slippery  faith,  now  favor- 
ing one  party  and  then  the  other?’  Although  these  words 
ought  to  have  irritated  me,  I answered  them  with  all  discretion, 
^that  you  did  keep,  and  ever  had  kept  your  faith;  the  main- 
tenance of  which  has  placed  you  in  great  trouble,  and  subjected 
you  to  wars  of  longer  duration  than  you  would  otherwise  have 
experienced;  descending  to  particulars  in  justification  of  your 
Sublimity.’  Whereupon  one  of  them  replied,  ‘ Isti  Veneti  sunt 
piscatores,'^  * Marvellous  was  the  command  I then  had  over 
myself  in  not  giving  vent  to  expressions  which  might  have 
proved  injurious  to  your  Signory;  and  with  extreme  moderation 
I rejoined,  ^that  had  he  been  at  Venice,  and  seen  our  Senate, 
and  the  Venetian  nobility,  he  perhaps  would  not  speak  thus; 
and  moreover,  were  he  well  read  in  our  history,  both  concerning 
the  origin  of  our  city  and  the  grandeur  of  your  Excellency’s 
feats,  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  would  seem  to  him  tliose 
of  fishermen;  yet,’  said  I,  ^did  fishermen  found  the  Christian 
faith,  and  we  have  been  those  fishermen  who  defended  it  agaiust 
the  forces  of  the  Infidel,  our  fishing-boats  being  galleys  and 
ships,  our  hooks  the  treasure  of  St.  Mark,  and  our  bait  the 
life-blood  of  our  citizens,  who  died  for  the  Christian  faith.’  ’’ 


* “ Tliose  Venetians  are  fisliermen,” 


224 


10.  PIXAL  APPEXDIX. 


I take  this  most  interesting  passage  from  a volume  of  de- 
spatches addressed  from  London  to  the  Signory  of  Venice,  by  the 
ambassador  Giustiniani,  during  the  years  1516-1519;  despatches 
not  only  full  of  matters  of  historical  interest,  but  of  the  most 
delightful  every-day  description  of  all  that  went  on  at  the  Eng-  | 
lish  court.  They  were  translated  by  Mr.  Brown  from  the  origi- 
nal letters,  and  will,  I believe,  soon  be  published,  and  I hope 
also,  read  and  enjoyed:  for  I cannot  close  these  volumes,  without 
expressing  a conviction,  which  has  long  been  forcing  itself  u|)on 
my  mind,  that  restored  history  is  of  little  more  value  than  restored 
liainting  or  architecture;  that  the  only  history  worth  reading  is 
that  written  at  the  time  of  Avhich  it  treats,  the  history  of  what 
was  done  and  seen,  heard  out  of  the  mouths  of  the  men  who  did 
and  sawA  One  fresh  draught  of  such  history  is  worth  more  than 
a thousand  volumes  of  abstracts,  and  reasonings,  and  suppositions, 
and  theories;  and  I believe  that,  as  we  get  wiser,  we  shall  take 
little  trouble  about  the  history  of  nations  who  have  left  no  dis- 
tinct records  of  themselves,  but  spend  our  time  only  in  the 
examination  of  the  faithful  documents  which,  in  any  period  of 
the  world,  have  been  left,  either  in  the  form  of  art  or  literature, 
portraying  the  scenes,  or  recording  the  events,  which  in  those 
days  were  actually  passing  before  the  eyes  of  men. 

10.  FIXAL  APPEXDIX. 

The  statements  respecting  the  dates  of  Venetian  buildings 
made  throughout  the  preceding  pages,  are  founded,  as  above 
stated,  on  careful  and  personal  examination  of  all  the  mouldings, 
or  other  features  available  as  evidence,  of  every  palace  of  impor- 
tance in  the  city.  Three  parts,  at  least,  of  the  time  occupied  in 
the  completion  of  the  work  have  been  necessarily  devoted  to  the 
collection  of  these  evidences,  of  which  it  would  be  quite  useless 
to  lay  the  mass  before  the  reader;  but  of  which  the  leading  i)oints 
must  be  succinctly  stated,  in  order  to  show  the  nature  of  my 
authority  for  any  of  the  conclusions  expressed  in  the  text. 

I liave  therefore  collected  in  the  plates  which  illustrate  this 
article  of  the  Appendix,  for  the  examination  of  any  reader  who 
may  be  interested  by  them,  as  many  examples  of  the  evidence- 
liearing  details  as  are  sufficient  for  the  proof  required,  especially 
including  all  the  exceptional  forms;  so  that  the  reader  ipay  rest 


BYZANTINE  BASKS. 


T.  BASES. 


10.  FINAL  APPENDIX. 


225 


assured  that  if  I had  been  able  to  lay  before  him  all  the  evidence 
in  my  possession,  it  would  have  been  still  more  conclusive  than 
the  portion  now  submitted  to  him. 

We  must  examine  in  succession  the  Bases,  Doorways  and 
Jambs,  Capitals,  Archivolts,  Cornices,  and  Tracery  Bars,  of 
Venetian  architecture. 

/.  Bases, 

The  principal  points  we  have  to  notice  are  the  similarity  and 
simplicity  of  the  Byzantine  bases  in  general,  and  the  distinction 
between  those  of  Torcello  and  Murano,  and  of  St.  Mark’s,  as 
tending  to  prove  the  early  dates  attributed  in  the  text  to  the 
island  churches.  I have  sufficiently  illustrated  the  forms  of  the 
Gothic  bases  in  Plates  X.,  XI.,  and  XIII.  of  the  first  volume,  so 
that  I here  note  chiefly  the  Byzantine  or  Romanesque  ones, 
adding  two  Gothic  forms  for  the  sake  of  comparison. 

The  most  characteristic  examples,  then,  are  collected  in  Plate 
V.  opposite;  namely: 

1,  2,  3,  4.  In  the  upper  gallery  of  apse  of  Murano. 

5.  Lower  shafts  of  apse.  Murano. 

6.  Casa  Palier. 

7.  Small  shafts  of  panels.  Casa  Farsetti. 

8.  Great  shafts  and  plinth.  Casa  Farsetti. 

9.  Great  lower  shafts.  Fonda^o  de’  Turchi. 

10.  Ducal  Palace,  upper  arcade. 

Plate  V.  11.  General  late  Gothic  form. 

Vol.  III.  12.  Tomb  of  Dogaressa  Vital  Michele,  in  St.  Mark’s 
atrium. 

13.  Upper  arcade  of  Madonnetta  House. 

14.  Rio-Foscari  House. 

15.  Upper  arcade.  Terraced  House. 

16.  17,  18.  Xave.  Torcello. 

19,  20.  Transepts.  St.  Mark’s. 

21.  ^Tave.  St.  Mark’s. 

22.  External  pillars  of  northern  j)ortico.  St.  Mark’s. 

23.  24.  Clustered  pillars  of  northern  portico. 

Mark’s. 

25,  26.  Clustered  pillars  of  southern  portico.  St. 

Mark’s, 


226 


10.  FINAL  APPENDIX. 


I.  BASES. 


Now,  observe,  first,  the  enormous  difEerence  in  style  between 
the  bases  1 to  5,  and  the  rest  in  the  upper  row,  that  is  to  say, 
between  the  bases  of  Murano  and  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
century  bases  of  Venice;  and,  secondly,  the  difference  between 
the  bases  16  to  20  and  the  rest  in  the  lower  row,  that  is  to  say, 
between  the  bases  of  Torcello  (with  those  of  St.  Mark’s  which 
belong  to  the  nave,  and  which  may  therefore  be  supposed  to  be 
part  of  the  earlier  church),  and  the  later  ones  of  the  St.  Mark’s 
Facade. 

Secondly:  Note  the  fellowship  between  5 and  6,  one  of  the 
evidences  of  the  early  date  of  the  Casa  Falier. 

Thirdly:  Observe  the  slurring  of  the  upper  roll  into  the 
cavetto,  in  13,  14,  and  15,  and  the  consequent  relationship 
established  between  three  most  important  buildings,  the  Eio- 
Foscari  House,  Terraced  House,  and  Madonnetta  House. 

Fourthly:  Byzantine  bases,  if  they  have  an  incision  between 
the  upper  roll  and  cavetto,  are  very  apt  to  approach  the  form  of 
fig.  23,  in  which  the  upper  roll  is  cut  out  of  the  fiat  block,  and 
the  ledge  beneath  it  is  sloping.  Compare  Nos.  7,  8,  9,  21,  22, 
23,  24,  25,  26.  On  the  other  hand,  the  later  Gothic  base,  11, 
has  always  its  upper  roll  well  developed,  and,  generally,  the  fillet 
between  it  and  the  cavetto  vertical.  The  sloping  fillet  is  indeed 
found  down  to  late  periods;  and  the  vertical  fillet,  as  in  No.  12, 
in  Byzantine  ones;  but  still,  when  a base  has  such  a sloping  fillet 
and  peculiarly  graceful  sweeping  cavetto,  as  those  of  No.  10, 
looking  as  if  they  would  run  into  one  line  with  each  other,  it  is 
strong  presumptive  evidence  of  its  belonging  to  an  early,  rather 
than  a late  period. 

The  base  12  is  the  boldest  example  I could  find  of  the  excep- 
tional form  in  early  times;  but  observe,  in  this,  that  the  upper 
roll  is  larger  than  the  lower.  This  is  never  the  case  in  late 
Gothic,  where  the  proportion  is  always  as  in  fig.  11.  Observe 
that  in  Nos.  8 and  9 the  upper  rolls  are  at  least  as  large  as  the 
lower,  an  important  evidence  of  the  dates  of  the  Casa  Farsetti 
and  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

Lastly:  Note  the  peculiarly  steep  profile  of  No.  22,  with 
reference  to  what  is  said  of  this  base  in  Vol.  II.  Appendix  9. 


II.  DOORWAYS. 


10.  FIZS’^AL  APPENDIX, 


227 


II,  Dooncays  and  Jamis, 


The  entrances  to  St.  Mark’s  consist,  as  aboTe  mentioned,  of 
great  circular  or  ogee  porches;  underneath  which  the  real  o;jcii 
entrances,  in  which  the  yalves  of  the  bronze  doors  play,  are 
square  headed. 

The  mouldings  of  the  jambs 
of  these  doors  are  highly  curious, 
and  the  most  characteristic  are 
therefore  represented  in  one 
yiew.  The  outsides  of  the 
jambs  are  lowest. 

a.  Xorthern  lateral  door. 

I,  First  northern  door  of  the 
facade. 

c.  Second  door  of  the  facade. 

d.  Fourth  door  of  the  fagade. 

e.  Central  door  of  the  facade. 


228 


10.  FIKAL  APPEKniX. 


II.  DOORWAYS. 


I wish  the  reader  especially  to  note  the  arbitrary  character  of 
the  curves  and  incisions;  all  evidently  being  drawn  by  hand, 
none  being  segments  of  circles,  none  like  another,  none  influenced 
by  any  visible  law.  I do  not  give  these  mouldings  as  beautiful; 
they  are,  for  the  most  part,  very  poor  in  effect,  but  they  are 
singularly  characteristic  of  the  free  work  of  the  time. 

The  kind  of  door  to  which  these  mouldings  belong,  is  shown, 
with  the  other  groups  of  doors,  in  Plate  XIV.  Vol.  II.  fig.  6 a. 
Then  ^ h,  ^ c,  % d represent  the  groups  of  doors  in  which  the 
Byzantine  influence  remained  energetic,  admitting  slowly  the 
forms  of  the  pointed  Gothic;  7 a,  with  the  gable  above,  is  the 
intermediate  group  between  the  Byzantine  and  Gothic  schools; 
^ dy  1 e are  the  advanced  guards  of  the  Gothic  and  Lom- 

bardic  invasions,  representative  of  a large  number  of  thirteenth 
century  arcades  and  doors.  Observe  that  6 ^ is  shown  to  be  of  a 
late  school  by  its  finial,  and  6 e of  the  latest  school  by  its  finial, 
complete  ogee  arch  (instead  of  .round  or  pointed),  and  aban- 
donment of  the  lintel. 

These  examples,  with  the  exception  of  6 a,  which  is  a general 
form,  are  all  actually  existing  doors;  namely: 

6 5.  In  the  Fondamenta  Venier,  near  St.  Maria  della  Salute. 

6 c.  In  the  Oalle  delle  Botteri,  between  the  Kialto  and  San 
Cassan. 

6 d.  Main  door  of  San  Gregorio. 

6 e.  Door  of  a palace  in  Rio  San  Paternian. 

7 a.  Door  of  a small  courtyard  near  house  of  Marco  Polo. 

7 S.  Arcade  in  narrow  canal,  at  the  side  of  Casa  Barbaro. 

7 c.  At  the  turn  of  the  canal,  close  to  the  Ponte  delk  Angelo. 

7 d.  In  Rio  San  Paternian  (a  ruinous  house). 

7 e.  At  the  turn  of  the  canal  on  which  the  Sotto  Portico  della 
Stua  opens,  near  San  Zaccaria. 

If  the  reader  will  take  a magnifying  glass  to  the  figure  6 d,  he 
will  see  that  its  square  ornaments,  of  which,  in  the  real  door, 
each  contains  a rose,  diminish  to  the  apex  of  the  arch;  a very 
interesting  and  characteristic  circumstance,  showing  the  subtle 
feeling  of  the  Gothic  builders.  They  must  needs  diminish  the 
ornamentation,  in  order  to  sympathize  with  the  delicacy  of  the 
point  of  the  arch.  The  magnifying  glass  will  also  show  the 


BYZANTINE  JAMBS. 


II.  DOOnWAYS. 


10.  FIKAL  APPEXDIX. 


220 


Boiidumieri  shield  in  No.  7 d,  and  the  Leze  shield  in  No.  7 e, 
both  introduced  on  the  keystones  in  the  grand  early  manner. 
The  mouldings  of  these  various  doors  will  be  noticed  under  the 
head  Archivolt. 

Now,  throughout  the  city  we  find  a number  of  doors  resem- 
bling the  square  doors  of  St.  Mark,  and  occurring  with  rare  ex- 
ceptions either  in  buildings  of  the  Byzantine  period,  or  imbedded 
in  restored  houses;  never,  in  a single  instance,  forming  a con- 
nected portion  of  any  late  building;  and  they  therefore  furnish 
a most  important  piece  of  evidence,  wherever  they  are  part  of 
the  original  structure  of  a Gothic  building,  that  such  building  is 
one  of  the  advanced  guards  of  the  Gothic  school,  and  belongs  to 
its  earliest  period. 

On  Plate  VI.,  opposite,  are  assembled  all  the  important  ex- 
amples I could  find  in  A^enice  of  these  mouldings.  The  reader 
will  see  at  a glance  their  peculiar  character,  and  unmistakable 
likeness  to  each  other.  The  following  are  the  references: 

1.  Door  in  Calle  Mocenigo. 

2.  Angle  of  tomb  of  Dogaressa  A'ital  Michele. 

3.  Door  in  Sotto  Portico,  St.  Apollonia  (near  Ponte 

di  Canon ica). 

4.  Door  in  Calle  della  A^erona  (another  like  it  is  close 

by)- 

5.  Angle  of  tomb  of  Doge  Alarino  Alorosini. 

6.  7.  Door  in  Calle  Mocenigo. 

8.  Door  in  Campo  S.  Margherita. 

Plate  A'I.  9.  Door  at  Traghetto  San  Samuele,  on  south  side  of 
A^ol.  III.  Grand  Canal. 

10.  Door  at  Ponte  St.  Toma. 

11.  Great  door  of  Church  of  Servi. 

12.  In  Calle  della  Chiesa,  Campo  San  Filippo  e 

Giacomo. 

13.  Door  of  house  in  Calle  di  Kimedio  (Vol.  II.). 

14.  Door  in  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

15.  Door  in  Fondamenta  Malcanton,  near  Campo  S. 

Margherita. 

16.  Door  in  south  side  of  Canna  Seggio. 

17.  18.  Doors  in  Sotto  Portico  dei  Squellini, 


230 


10.  FIKAL  APPEKDIX. 


II.  DOORWAYS. 


The  principal  jooints  to  be  noted  in  these  mouldings  are 
their  curious  differences  of  level,  as  marked  by  the  dotted  lines, 
more  especially  in  14,  15,  16,  and  the  systematic  projection  of 
the  outer  or  lower  mouldings  in  16,  17,  18.  Then,  as  points  of 
evidence,  observe  that  1 is  the  jamb  and  6 the  archivolt  (7  the 
angle  on  a larger  scale)  of  the  brick  door  given  in  my  folio  work 
from  Kamo  di  rimpetto  Mocenigo,  one  of  the  evidences  of  the 
early  date  of  that  door;  8 is  the  jamb  of  the  door  in  Campo 
Santa  Margherita  (also  given  in  my  folio  work),  fixing  the  early 
date  of  that  also;  10  is  from  a Gothic  door  opening  off  the  Ponte 
St.  Toma;  and  11  is  also  from  a Gothic  building.  All  the  rest 
are  from  Byzantine  work,  or  from  ruins.  The  angle  of  the  tomb 
of  Marino  Morosini  (5)  is  given  for  comparison  only. 

The  doors  with  the  mouldings  17,  18,  are  from  the  two  ends 
of  a small  dark  passage,  called  the  Sotto  Portico  dei  Squellini, 
opening  near  Ponte  Cappello,  on  the  Eio-Marin:  14  is  the  outside 
one,  arranged  as  usual,  and  at  a,  in  the  rough  stone,  are  places 
for  the  staples  of  the  door  valve;  15,  at  the  other  end  of  the  pas- 
sage, opening  into  the  little  Corte  dei  Squellini,  is  set  with  the 
part  a outwards,  it  also  having  places  for  hinges;  but  it  is  curi- 
ous that  the  rich  moulding  should  be  set  in  towards  the  dark 
passage,  though  natural  that  the  doors  should  both  open  one  way. 

The  next  Plate,  VII. , will  show  the  principal  characters  of 
the  Gothic  jambs,  and  the  total  difference  between  them  and  the 
Byzantine  ones.  Two  more  Byzantine  forms,  1 and  2,  are  given 
here  for  the  sake  of  comparison;  then  3,  4,  and  5 are  the  com- 
mon profiles  of  simple  jambs  of  doors  in  the  Gothic  period;  6 is 
one  of  the  jambs  of  the  Frari  windows,  continuous  into  the 
archivolt,  and  meeting  the  traceries,  where  the  line  is  set  upon 
it  at  the  extremity  of  its  main  slope;  7 and  8 are  jambs  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  windows,  in  which  the  great  semicircle  is  the  half 
shaft  which  Sustains  the  traceries,  and  the  rest  of  the  profile  is 
continuous  in  the  archivolt;  17,  18,  and  19  are  the  principal  piers 
of  tlie  Ducal  Palace;  and  20,  from  St.  Fermo  of  Verona,  is  put 
Avith  them  in  order  to  shoAV  the  step  of  transition  from  the  By- 
zantine form  2 to  the  Gothic  chamfer,  which  is  liardly  represented 
at  Venice.  The  other  profiles  on  the  plate  are  all  late  Gothic, 
given  to  shoAV  the  gradual  increase  of  complexity  without  any 
gain  of  power.  The  open  lines  in  12,  14,  16,  etc.,  are  the  parts 


VII. 


GOTHIC  JAMBS. 


III.  CAPITALS. 


10.  EIJS'AL  APPENDIX. 


231 


of  the  profile  cut  into  flowers  or  cable  mouldings;  and  so  much 
incised  as  to  show  the  constant  outline  of  the  cavetto  or  curve 
beneath  them.  The  following  are  the  references: 

1.  Door  in  house  of  Marco  Polo. 

2.  Old  door  in  a restored  church  of  St.  Cassan. 

3.  4,  5.  Common  jambs  of  Gothic  doors. 

6.  Frari  windows. 

7,  8.  Ducal  Palace  windows. 

9.  Casa  Priuli,  great  entrance. 

10.  San  Stefano,  great  door. 

Plate  VII.  11.  San  Gregorio^,  door  opening  to  the  water. 

Vol.  III.  12.  Lateral  door,  Frari. 

13.  Door  of  Campo  San  Zaccaria. 

14.  Madonna  delF  Orto. 

15.  San  Gregorio,  door  in  the  fa9ade. 

16.  Great  lateral  door,  Frari. 

17.  Pilaster  at  Vine  angle.  Ducal  Palace. 

18.  Pier,  inner  cortile.  Ducal  Palace. 

19.  Pier,  under  the  medallion  of  Venice,  on  the 

Piazetta  fa9ade  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 

III.  Capitals. 

I shall  here  notice  the  various  facts  I have  omitted  in  the  text 
of  the  work. 

First,  with  respect  to  the  Byzantine  Capitals  represented  in 
Plate  VII.  Vol.  II.,  I omitted  to  notice  that  figs.  6 and  7 repre- 
sent two  sides  of  the  same  capital  at  Murano  (though  one  is 
necessarily  drawn  on  a smaller  scale  than  the  other).  Fig.  7 is 
the  side  turned  to  the  light,  and  fig.  6 to  the  shade,  the  inner 
part,  which  is  quite  concealed,  not  being  touched  at  all. 

We  have  here  a conclusive  proof  that  these  capitals  were  cut 
for  their  place  in  the  apse;  therefore  I have  always  considered 
them  as  tests  of  Venetian  workmanship,  and,  on  the  strength  of 
that  proof,  have  occasionally  spoken  of  capitals  as  of  true  Vene- 
tian work,  which  M.  Lazari  supposes  to  be  of  the  Lower  Empire. 
No.  11,  from  St.  Mark’s,  was  not  above  noticed.  The  way  in 
which  the  cross  is  gradually  left  in  deeper  relief  as  the  sides  slope 
inwards  and  away  from  it,  is  highly  picturesque  and  curious, 


232 


10.  FINAL  APPENDIX. 


III.  CAPITALS. 


No.  9 has  been  reduced  from  a larger  drawing,  and  some  of 
the  life  and  character  of  the  curves  lost  in  consequence.  It  is 
chiefly  given  to  show  the  irregular  and  fearless  freedom  of  the 
Byzantine  designers,  no  two  parts  of  the  foliage  being  correspon- 
dent; in  the  original  it  is  of  white  marble,  the  ground  being 
colored  blue. 

Plate  X.  Vol.  II.  represents  the  four  principal  orders  of 
Venetian  capitals  in  their  greatest  simplicity,  and  the  profiles  of 
the  most  interesting  examples  of  each.  The  figures  1 and  4 
are  the  two  great  concave  and  convex  groups,  and  2 and  3 the 
transitional.  Above  each  type  of  form  I have  put  also  an  exam- 
ple of  the  group  of  flowers  which  represent  it  in  nature:  fig.  1 
has  a lily ; fig.  2 a variety  of  the  Tulipa  sylvestris ; figs.  3 and 
4 forms  of  the  magnolia.  I prepared  this  plate  in  the  early 
spring,  when  I could  not  get  any  other  examples,*  or  I would 
rather  have  had  two  different  species  for  figs.  3 and  4 ; but  tlie 
half-open  magnolia  will  answer  the  purpose,  showing  the  beauty 
of  the  triple  curvature  in  the  sides. 

I do  not  say  that  the  forms  of  the  capitals  are  actually  taken 
from  flowers,  though  assuredly  so  in  some  instances,  and  par- 
tially so  in  the  decoration  of  nearly  all.  But  they  were  designed 
by  men  of  pure  and  natural  feeling  for  beauty,  who  therefore 
instinctively  adopted  the  forms  represented,  which  are  after- 
wards proved  to  be  beautiful  by  their  frequent  occurrence  in 
common  flowers. 

The  convex  forms,  3 and  4,  are  put  lowest  in  the  plate  only 
because  they  are  heaviest;  they  are  the  earliest  in  date,  and  have 
already  been  enough  examined. 

I have  added  a plate  to  this  volume  (Plate  XII.),  which 
should  have  appeared  in  illustration  of  the  fifth  chapter  of  Vol. 
II.,  but  was  not  finished  in  time.  It  represents  the  central  capi- 
tal and  two  of  the  lateral  ones  of  the  Fondaco  de’  Turchi,  the 
central  one  drawn  very  large,  in  order  to  show  the  excessive 
simplicity  of  its  chiselling,  together  with  the  care  and  sharpness 
of  it,  each  leaf  being  expressed  by  a series  of  sharp  furrows  and 

* I am  afraid  that  the  kind  friend,  Lady  Trevelyan,  who  helped  me  to 
finish  this  plate,  will  not  like  to  be  thanked  here ; but  I cannot  let  her  send 
into  Devonshire  for  magnolias,  and  draw  them  for  me,  without  thankim'- 
her. 


m.  CAPITALS. 


10.  riXAL  APPEisDIX. 


233 


ridges.  Some  slight  errors  in  the  large  tracings  from  which  the 
engraving  was  made  have,  however,  occasioned  a loss  of  spring 
in  the  curves,  and  the  little  fig.  4 of  Plate  X.  Yol.  II.  gives  a 
truer  idea  of  the  distant  effect  of  the  capital. 

The  profiles  given  in  Plate  X.  Vol.  II.  are  the  following  : 

1.  a.  Main  capitals,  upper  arcade,  Madonnetta  House. 
S.  Main  capitals,  upper  arcade,  Casa  Palier. 

c.  Lateral  capitals,  upper  arcade,  Fondaco  de’  Tur- 

chi. 

d.  Small  pillars  of  St.  Mark’s  Pulpit. 

e.  Casa  Farsetti. 

/.  Inner  capitals  of  arcade  of  Ducal  Palace. 

g.  Plinth  of  the  house*  at  Apostoli. 

li.  Main  capitals  of  house  at  Apostoli. 

i.  Main  capitals,  upper  arcade,  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

a.  Lower  arcade,  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

i,  c.  Lower  pillars,  house  at  Apostoli. 

d.  San  Simeon  Grande. 

Plate  X.  e.  Eestored  house  on  Grand  Canal.  Three  of  the 
VoL.  II.  2.  old  arches  left. 

/.  Upper  arcade.  Ducal  Palace. 

g,  Windows  of  third  order,  central  shaft.  Ducal  Pal- 

ace. 

h,  Windows  of  third  order,  lateral  shaft.  Ducal  Pal 

ace. 

n Ducal  Palace,  main  shafts. 

Ic,  Piazzetta  shafts. 

3.  a,  St.  Mark’s  Have. 

1),  c.  Lily  capitals,  St.  Mark’s. 

a,  Fondaco  de’  Turchi,  central  shaft,  upper  arcade. 

5.  Murano,  upper  arcade. 

c.  Murano,  lower  arcade. 

d.  Tomb  of  St.  Isidore. 

e.  General  late  Gothic  profile. 

* That  is,  the  house  in  the  parish  of  the  Apostoli,  on  the  Grand  Canal- 
noticed  in  Yol.  IT.;  and  see  also  the  Yenetian  Index,  under  head  “Apes 


234 


10.  FINAL  AFFENDIN, 


III.  CAPITALS. 


The  last  two  sections  are  convex  in  effect,  though  not  in  real- 
ity; the  bulging  lines  being  carved  into  bold  flower- work. 

The  capitals  belonging  to  the  groups  1 and  2,  in  the  Byzan- 
tine times,  have  already  been  illustrated  in  Plate  VIII.  Vol.  II.; 
we  have  yet  to  trace  their  succession  in  the  Gothic  times.  This 
is  done  in  Plate  II.  of  this  volume,  which  we  will  now  examine 
carefully.  The  following  are  the  capitals  represented  in  that 
plate: 

1.  Small  shafts  of  St.  Mark’s  Pulpit. 

2.  From  the  transitional  house  in  the  Calle  di  Eime- 

dio  (conf.  Vol.  II.). 

3.  General  simplest  form  of  the  middle  Gothic  capi- 

tal. 

4.  Nave  of  San  Giacomo  de  Lorio. 

5.  Casa  Falier. 

6.  Early  Gothic  house  in  Campo  Sta.  Mater 

Domini. 

Plate  II.  7.  House  at  the  Apostoli. 

Vol.  III.  8.  Piazzetta  shafts. 

9.  Ducal  Palace,  upper  arcade. 

10.  Palace  of  Marco  Querini. 

11.  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

12.  Gothic  palaces  in  Campo  San  Polo. 

13.  Windows  of  fourth  order,  Plate  XVI.  Vol.  II. 

14.  Nave  of  Church  of  San  Stefano. 

15.  Late  Gothic  Palace  at  the  Miracoli. 

The  two  lateral  columns  form  a consecutive  series  : the  cen- 
tral column  is  a group  of  exceptional  character,  running  parallel 
with  both.  We  will  take  the  lateral  ones  first.  1.  Capital  of 
pulpit  of  St.  Mark’s  (representative  of  the  simplest  concave  forms 
of  the  Byzantine  period).  Look  back  to  Plate  VIII.  Vol.  II., 
and  observe  that  while  all  the  forms  in  that  plate  are  contempo- 
raneous, we  are  now  going  to  follow  a series  consecutive  in  time, 
which  begins  from  fig.  1,  either  in  that  plate  or  in  this ; that  is 
to  say,  with  the  simplest  possible  condition  to  be  found  at  the 
time;  and  which  proceeds  to  develope  itself  into  gradually 
increasing  richness,  while  the  already  rich  capitals  of  the  old 
school  die  at  its  side.  In  the  forms  14  and  15  (Plate  VIII.)  the 


m.  CAPITALS. 


10.  riKAL  APPENDIX. 


235 


Byzantine  school  expired;  but  from  the  Byzantine  simple  capital 
(1,  Plate  II.  aboye)  which  was  coexistent  with  them,  sjirang 
another  hardy  race  of  capitals,  whose  succession  we  have  now  to 
trace. 

The  form  1,  Plate  II.  is  evidently  the  simplest  conceivable 
condition  of  the  truncated  capital,  long  ago  represented  gener- 
ally in  Vol.  I.,  being  only  rounded  a little  on  its  side  to  fit  it  to 
the  shaft.  The  next  step  was  to  place  a leaf  beneath  each  of  the 
truncations  (fig.  4,  Plate  II.,  San  Giacomo  de  Lorio),  the  end  of 
the  leaf  curling  over  at  the  top  in  a somewhat  formal  spiral, 
partly  connected  with  the  traditional  volute  of  the  Corinthian 
capital.  The  sides  are  then  enriched  by  the  addition  of  some 
ornament,  as  a shield  (fig.  7)  or  rose  (fig.  10),  and  we  have  the 
formed  capital  of  the  early  Gothic.  Fig.  10,  being  from  the 
palace  of  Marco  Querini,  is  certainly  not  later  than  the  middle 
of  the  thirteenth  century  (see  Vol.  II. ),  and  fig.  7,  is,  I believe, 
of  the  same  date ; it  is  one  of  the  bearing  capitals  of  the  lower 
story  of  the  palace  at  the  Apostoli,  and  is  remarkably  fine  in  the 
treatment  of  its  angle  leaves,  which  are  not  deeply  under-cut, 
but  show  their  magnificent  sweeping  under  surface  all  the  way 
down,  not  as  a leaf  surface,  but  treated  like  the  gorget  of  a hel- 
met, with  a curved  line  across  it  like  that  where  the  gorget 
meets  the  mail.  I never  saw  anything  finer  in  simple  design. 
Fig.  10  is  given  chiefiy  as  a certification  of  date,  and  to  show  the 
treatment  of  the  capitals  of  this  school  on  a small  scale.  Ob- 
serve the  more  expansive  head  in  proportion  to  the  diameter  of 
the  shaft,  the  leaves  being  drawn  from  the  angles,  as  if  gathered 
in  the  hand,  till  their  edges  meet ; and  compare  the  rule  given 
in  Vol.  I.  Chap.  IX.  § xiv.  The  capitals  of  the  remarkable 
house,  of  which  a portion  is  represented  in  Fig.  XXXI.  Vol.  II., 
are  most  curious  and  pure  examples  of  this  condition  ; with 
experimental  trefoils,  roses,  and  leaves  introduced  between  their 
volutes.  When  compared  with  those  of  the  Querini  Palace, 
they  form  one  of  the  most  important  evidences  of  the  date  of  the 
building. 

Fig.  13.  One  of  the  bearing  capitals,  already  drawn  on  a 
small  scale  in  the  windows  represented  in  Plate  XVI.  A^ol.  II. 

Xow,  observe.  The  capital  of  the  form  of  fig.  10  appeared 
sufficient  to  the  A^enetians  for  all  ordinary  purposes ; and  they 


236 


10.  riKAL  APPENDIX. 


III.  CAPITALS. 


used  it  in  common  windows  to  the  latest  Gothic  periods^  hut  yet 
with  certain  differences  which  at  once  show  the  lateness  of  the 
work.  In  the  first  place,  the  rose,  which  at  first  was  flat  and 
quatref oiled,  becomes,  after  some  experiments,  around  ball  divid- 
ing into  three  leaves,  closely  resembling  our  English  ball  flower, 
and  probably  derived  from  it;  and,  in  other  cases,  forming  a bold 
projecting  bud  in  various  degrees  of  contraction  or  expansion. 
In  the  second  place,  the  extremities  of  the  angle  leaves  are 
wrought  into  rich  flowing  lobes,  and  bent  back  so  as  to  lap 
against  their  own  breasts  ; showing  lateness  of  date  in  exact  pro- 
i:)ortion  to  the  looseness  of  curvature.  Fig.  3 represents  the  gen- 
eral aspect  of  these  later  capitals,  which  may  be  conveniently 
called  the  rose  capitals  of  Venice  ; two  are  seen  on  service,  in 
Plate  VIII.  Vol.  I.,  showing  comparatively  early  date  by  the 
experimental  form  of  the  six-foiled  rose.  But  for  elaborate  edi- 
fices this  form  was  not  sufficiently  rich  ; and  there  was  felt  to  be 
something  awkward  in  the  junction  of  the  leaves  at  the  bottom. 
Therefore,  four  other  shorter  leaves  were  added  at  the  sides,  as 
in  fig.  13,  Plate  II.,  and  as  generally  represented  in  Plate  X. 
Vol.  II.  fig.  1.  This  was  a good  and  noble  step,  taken  very 
early  in  the  thirteenth  century  ; and  all  tlie  best  Venetian  capi- 
tals were  thenceforth  of  this  form.  Those  which  followed,  and 
rested  in  the  common  rose  tyj)e,  were  languid  and  unfortunate  : 
I do  not  know  a single  good  example  of  them  after  the  first  half 
of  the  thirteenth  century. 

But  the  form  reached  in  fig.  13  was  quickly  felt  to  be  of 
great  value  and  power.  One  would  have  thought  it  might  have 
been  taken  straight  from  the  Corinthian  type ; but  it  is  clearly 
the  work  of  men  who  were  making  experiments  for  themselves. 
For  instance,  in  the  central  capital  of  Fig.  XXXI.  Vol.  II.,  there 
is  a trial  condition  of  it,  with  the  intermediate  leaf  set  behind 
those  at  the  angles  (the  reader  had  better  take  a magnifying 
glass  to  this  woodcut ; it  will  show  the  character  of  the  capitals 
better).  Two  other  experimental  forms  occur  in  the  Casa 
Cicogna  (Vol.  II.),  and  supply  one  of  the  evidences  which  fix 
the  date  of  that  palace.  But  tlie  form  soon  was  determined  as 
in  fig.  13,  and  then  means  were  sought  of  recommending  it  by 
farther  decoration. 

The  leaves  which  are  used  in  fig.  13,  it  will  be  observed,  have 


III.  CAPITALS. 


10.  riisAL  APPENDIX. 


237 


lost  the  Corinthian  volute,  and  are  now  pure  and  plain  leaves, 
such  as  were  used  in  the  Lombardic  Gothic  of  the  early 
thirteenth  century  all  over  Italy.  Now  in  a round-arched  gate- 
Avay  at  Verona,  certainly  not  later  than  1300  ; the  pointed  leaves 
of  this  pure  form  are  used  in  one  portion  of  the  mouldings,  and 
in  another  are  enriched  by  having  their  surfaces  carved  each 
into  a beautiful  ribbed  and  pointed  leaf.  The  capital,  fig.  6, 
Plate  II.,  is  nothing  more  than  fig.  13  so  enriched  ; and  the 
two  conditions  are  quite  contemporary,  fig.  13  being  from  a 
beautiful  series  of  fourth  order  windows  in  Campo  Sta.  Ma- 
Mater  Domini,  already  drawn  in  my  folio  work. 

Fig.  13  is  representative  of  the  richest  conditions  of  Gothic 
capital  which  existed  at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
The  builder  of  the  Ducal  Palace  amplified  them  into  the  form  of 
fig.  9,  but  varying  the  leafage  in  disposition  and  division  of 
lobes  in  every  capital  ; and  the  workmen  trained  under  him 
executed  many  noble  capitals  for  the  Gothic  palaces  of  the  early 
fourteenth  century,  of  which  fig.  12,  from  a palace  in  the 
Campo  St.  Polo,  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  examples.  In  figs.  9 
and  12  the  reader  sees  the  Venetian  Gothic  capital  in  its  noblest 
developement.  The  next  step  was  to  such  forms  as  fig.  15, 
which  is  generally  characteristic  of  the  late  fourteenth  and  earlj 
fifteenth  century  Gothic,  anej  of  which  I hojie  the  reader  Avill  at 
once  perceive  the  exaggeration  and  corruption. 

This  capital  is  from  a palace  near  the  Miracoli,  and  it  is  re- 
markable  for  the  delicate,  though  corrujot,  ornament  on  its 
abacus,  which  is  precisely  the  same  as  that  on  the  pillars  of  the 
screen  of  St.  Mark’s.  That  screen  is  a monument  of  very  great 
value,  for  it  shows  the  entire  corruption  of  the  Gothic  power, 
and  the  style  of-  the  later  palaces  accurately  and  completely 
defined  in  all  its  parts,  and  is  dated  1380;  thus  at  once  furnish- 
iug  us  with  a limiting  date,  which  throws  all  the  noble  work  of 
the  early  Ducal  Palace,  and  all  that  is  like  it  in  Venice, 
thoroughly  back  into  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century  at  the 
latest. 

Fig.  2 is  the  simplest  condition  of  the  capital  universally 
employed  in  the  windows  of  the  second  order,  noticed  above, 
Vol.  II.,  as  belonging  to  a style  of  great  importance  in  the 
transitional  architecture  of  Venice.  Observe,  that  in  all  the 


238 


10.  FIXAL  APPENDIX. 


III.  CAPITALS. 


capitals  given  in  the  lateral  columns  in  Plate  II.,  the  points  of 
the  leaves  turn  over.  But  in  this  central  group  they  lie  flat 
against  the  angle  of  the  capital,  and  form  a peculiarly  light  and 
lovely  succession  of  forms,  occurring  only  in  their  purity  in  the 
\ windows  of  the  second  order,  and  in  some  important  monuments 
' connected  with  them. 

In  fig.  2 the  leaf  at  the  angle  is  cut,  exactly  in  the  manner  of 
an  Egyptian  bas-relief,  into  the  stone,  with  a raised  edge  round 
it,  and  a raised  rib  up  the  centre  ; and  this  mode  of  execution, 
seen  also  in  figs.  4 and  7,  is  one  of  the  collateral  evidences  of 
early  date.  But  in  figs.  5 and  8,  where  more  elaborate  effect 
was  required,  the  leaf  is  thrown  out  boldly  with  an  even  edge 
from  the  surface  of  the  capital,  and  enriched  on  its  own  surface  : 
and  as  the  treatment  of  fig.  2 corresponds  with  that  of  fig.  4, 
so  that  of  fig.  5 corresponds  with  that  of  fig.  6;  2 and  5 hav- 
ing the  upright  leaf,  4 and  6 the  bending  leaves ; but  all  con- 
temporary. 

Eig.  5 is  the  central  capital  of  the  windows  of  Casa  Falier, 
drawn  in  Plate  XV.  Vol.  II. ; and  one  of  the  leaves  set  on  its 
angles  is  drawn  larger  at  fig.  7,  Plate  XX.  Vol.  II.  It  has  no 
rib,  but  a sharp  raised  ridge  down  its  centre  ; and  its  lobes,  of 
which  the  reader  will  observe  the  curious  form, — round  in  the 
middle  one,  truncated  in  the  sides, — are  wrought  with  a preci- 
sion and  care  which  I have  hardly  ever  seen  equalled  : but  of 
this  more  presently. 

The  next  figure  (8,  Plate  II.)  is  the  most  important  capital  of 
the  whole  transitional  period,  that  employed  on  the  two  columns 
of  the  Piazzetta.  These  pillars  are  said  to  have  been  raised  in 
the  close  of  the  twelfth  century,  but  I cannot  find  even  the  most 
meagre  account  of  their  bases,  capitals,  or,  which  seems  to  me 
most  wonderful,  of  that  noble  winged,  lion,  one  of  the  grandest 
things  produced  by  mediaeval  art,  which  all  men  admire,  a?]d 
none  can  draw.  I have  never  yet  seen  a faithful  representation 
of  his  firm,  fierce,  and  fiery  strength.  I believe  that  both  he 
and  the  capital  which  bears  him  are  late  thirteenth  century  work. 
I have  not  been  up  to  the  lion,  and  cannot  answer  for  it ; but  if 
it  be  not  thirteenth  centuiy  work,  it  is  as  good  ; and  respecting 
the  capitals,  there  can  be  small  question.  They  are  of  exactly 
the  date  of  the  oldest  tombs,  bearing  crosses,  outside  of  St 


Ul.  CAIMTALR 


10.  FIKAL  APPEKDIX. 


230 


JoJin  uikI  Paul  ; and  are  associated  with  all  the  other  work  of 
tiie  transitional  pci'iod,  from  1250  to  1300  (the  bases  of  these 
pillars,  representing  the  trades  of  Venice,  ought,  by  the  by,  to 
have  been  mentioned  as  among  the  best  early  efforts  of  Vene- 
tian grotes({ue);  and,  besides,  their  abaci  are  formed  by  four 
reduplications  of  the  dentilled  mouldings  of  St.  Mark’s,  which 
never  occur  after  the  year  1300. 

Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  or  original  than  the  adaptation 
of  tliese  broad  bearing  abaci  ; but  as  they  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  capital  itself,  and  could  not  easily  be  brought  into  the 
s])ace,  they  are  omitted  in  Idate  II. , where  fig.  8 shows  the  bell 
of  the  capital  only.  Its  2)i*ofile  is  curiously  subtle, — apparently 
concave  everywhere,  but  in  reality  concave  (all  the  way  down) 
only  on  the  angles,  and  slightly  convex  at  the  sides  (the  profile 
through  the  side  being  2 k,  Plate  X.  Vol.  II.)  ; in  this  subtlety 
of  curvature,  as  well  as  in  the  simple  cross,  showing  the  influence 
of  early  times. 

The  leaf  on  the  angle,  of  which  more  presently,  is  fig.  5,  Plate 
XX.  Vol.  II. 

Connected  witli  this  school  of  transitional  capitals  we  find  a 
form  in  the  later  Gothic,  such  as  fig.  14,  from  the  Church  of 
San  Stefano  ; but  which  a])pears  in  part  derived  from  an  old  and 
rich  Jiyzantine  type,  of  which  lig.  11,  from  the  Fondaco  de’ 
Turchi,  is  a characteristic  example. 

I must  now  take  the  reader  one  step  farther,  and  ask  him  to 
examine,  finally,  the  treatment  of  the  leaves,  down  to  the  cutting 
of  their  most  minute  lobes,  in  the  series  of  capitals  of  which  we 
have  hitherto  only  sketched  the  general  forms. 

In  all  capitals  with  nodding  leaves,  such  as  6 and  9 in  Plate 
II.,  the  real  form  of  the  leaf  is  not  to  be  seen,  excei)t  in  perspec- 
tive ; but,  in  order  to  render  the  comparison  more  easy,  I have  in 
Plate  XX.  Vol.  II.  opened  all  tlie  leaves  out,  as  if  they  were  to 
be  dried  in  a herbarium,  only  leaving  the  furrows  and  sinuosi- 
ties of  surface,  but  laying  the  outside  contour  nearly  flat  upon 
the  page,  except  for  a particular  reason  in  figs.  2 10,  11, 

and  15. 

I shall  first,  as  usual,  give  the  references,  and  then  note  the 
points  of  interest. 


240 


10.  FINAL  APPENDIX. 


ITT.  CAPITALS. 


2^  3.  Fondaco  de’  Tiirchi,  upper  arcade. 

4.  Greek  jiillars  brought  from  St.  Jean  d’Acre, 

5.  Piazzetta  shafts. 

6.  Madonnetta  House. 

Plate  XX.  7.  Casa  Falier. 

Vol.  II.  8.  Palace  near  St.  Eustachio. 

9.  Tombs,  outside  of  St.  John  and  Paul. 

10.  Tomb  of  Cioyanni  Soranzo. 

11.  Tomb  of  Andrea  Dandolo. 

12',  13,  14.  Ducal  Palace. 

X.B.  The  upper  row,  1 to  4,  is  Byzantine,  the  next  tran- 
sitional, the  last  two  G othic. 

Fig.  1.  The  leaf  of  the  capital  Xo.  6,  Plate  VIII.  Vol.  II, 
Each  lobe  of  the  leaf  has  a sharp  furrow  up  to  its  point,  from  its 
root. 

Fig.  2.  The  leaf  of  the  capital  on  the  right  hand,  at  the  top 
of  Plate  XII.  in  this  yolume.  The  lobes  worked  in  the  same 
manner,  with  deep  black  drill  holes  between  their  points. 

Fig.  3.  One  of  theleayes  of  fig.  14,  Plate  VIII.  Vol.  II.  fully 
unfolded.  The  lobes  worked  in  the  same  manner,  but  left  shal- 
low, so  as  not  to  destroy  the  breadth  of  light ; the  central  line 
being  drawn  by  drill  holes,  and  the  interstices  between  lobes  cut 
black  and  deep. 

Fig.  4.  Leaf  with  flower  ; pure  Byzantine  work,  showing 
whence  the  treatment  of  all  the  other  leayes  has  been  deriyed. 

Fig.  6.  For  the  sake  of  symmetry,  this  is  put  in  the  centre: 
it  is  the  earliest  of  the  three  in  this  row  ; taken  from  the  Ma- 
donnetta House,  where  the  capitals  have  leayes  both  at  their 
sides  and  angles.  The  tall  angle  leaf,  with  its  two  lateral  ones, 
is  giyen  in  the  plate  ; and  there  is  a remarkable  distinction  in 
the  mode  of  workmanship  of  these  leayes,  which,  though  found 
in  a palace  of  the  Byzantine  period,  is  indicatiye  of  a tendency 
to  transition  ; -namely,  that  the  sharp  furrow  is  now  drawn  only 
to  the  central  lohe  of  each  diyision  of  the  leaf,  and  the  rest  of 
the  surface  of  the  leaf  is  left  nearly  flat,  a slight  concayity  only 
marking  the  diyision  of  the  extremities.  At  the  base  of  these 
leayes  they  are  perfectly  flat,  only  cut  by  the  sharp  and  narrow 
furrow,  as  an  eleyated  table-land  is  by  rayines. 


m.  CAPITALS. 


10.  FIXAL  APPFXmX. 


241 


Fig.  5.  A more  advanced  condition  ; the  fold  at  the  recess, 
between  each  division  of  the  leaf,  carefully  expressed,  and  the 
concave  or  depressed  portions  of  the  extremities  marked  more 
deeply,  as  well  as  the  central  furrow,  and  a rib  added  in  the 
centre. 

Pig.  7.  A contemporary,  but  more  finished  form  ; the 
sharp  furrows  becoming  softer,  and  the  whole  leaf  more 
flexible. 

Fig.  8.  An  exquisite  form  of  the  same  period,  but  show> 
ing  still  more  advanced  naturalism,  from  a very  early  group  of 
third  order  windows,  near  the  Church  of  St.  Eustachio  on  the 
Grand  Canal. 

Fig.  9.  Of  the  same  time,  from  a small  capital  of  an  angle 
shaft  of  the  sarcophagi  at  the  side  of  St.  John  and  Paul,  in  the 
little  square  which  is  adorned  by  the  Colleone  statue.  This 
leaf  is  very  quaint  and  pretty  in  giving  its  midmost  lateral 
divisions  only  two  lobes  each,  instead  of  the  usual  three  or 
four. 

Fig.  10.  Leaf  employed  in  the  cornice  of  the  tomb  of  the 
Doge  Giovanni  Soranzo,  who  died  in  1312.  It  nods  over,  and 
has  three  ribs  on  its  upper  surface  ; thus  giving  us  the  com- 
pleted ideal  form  of  the  leaf,  but  its  execution  is  still  very 
archaic  and  severe. 

Now  the  next  example,  fig.  11,  is  from  the  tomb  of  the  Doge 
Andrea  Dandolo,  and  therefore  executed  between  1354  and  1360; 
and  this  leaf  shows  the  Gothic  naturalism  and  refinement  of 
curvature  fully  developed.  In  this  forty  years’  interval,  then, 
the  principal  advance  of  Gothic  sculpture  is  to  be  placed. 

I had  prepared  a complete  series  of  examples,  showing  this 
advance,  and  the  various  ways  in  which  the  separations  of  the 
ribs,  a most  characteristic  feature,  are  more  and  more  delicately 
and  scientifically  treated,  from  the  beginning  to  the  middle  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  but  I feared  that  no  general  reader 
would  care  to  follow  me  into  these  minutiae,  and  have  cancelled 
this  portion  of  the  work,  at  least  for  the  present,  the  main  point 
being,  that  the  reader  should  feel  the  full  extent  of  the  change, 
which  he  can  hardly  fail  to  do  in  looking  from  fig.  10  to  figs.  11 
and  12.  I believe  that  fig.  12  is  the  earlier  of  the  two  ; and  it 
is  assuredly  the  finer,  having  all  the  elasticity  and  simplicity  of 


242 


10.  FIKAL  APPENDIX. 


III.  CAPITALS. 


the  earliest  forms,  with  jjerfect  flexibility  added.  In  fig.  11 
there  is  a perilous  element  beginning  to  develope  itself  into  one 
feature,  namely,  the  extremities  of  the  leaves,  which,  instead  of 
merely  nodding  over,  now  curl  completely  round  into  a kind  of 
ball.  This  occurs  early,  and  in  the  finest  Gothic  work,  espe- 
cially in  cornices  and  other  running  mouldings : but  it  is  a fatal 
symptom,  a beginning  of  the  intemperance  of  the  later  Gothic, 
and  it  was  followed  out  with  singular  avidity  ; the  ball  of  coiled 
leafage  increasing  in  size  and  complexity,  and  at  last  becoming 
the  principal  feature  of  the  work  ; the  light  striking  on  its 
vigorous  projection,  as  in  fig.  14.  Nearly  all  the  Renaissance 
Gothic  of  Venice  depends  upon  these  balls  for  effect,  a late  capi- 
tal being  generally  composed  merely  of  an  upper  and  lower  range 
of  leaves  terminating  in  this  manner. 

It  is  very  singular  and  notable  how,  in  this  loss  of  temperance^ 
there  is  loss  of  life.  For  truly  healthy  and  living  leaves  do  not 
bind  themselves  into  knots  at  the  extremities.  They  bend,  and 
wave,  and  nod,  but  never  curl.  It  is  in  disease,  or  in  death,  by 
Wight,  or  frost,  or  poison  only,  that  leaves  in  general  assume 
this  ingathered  form.  It  is  the  flame  of  autumn  that  has 
shrivelled  them,  or  the  web  of  the  caterpillar  that  has  bound 
them  : and  thus  the  last  forms  of  the  Venetian  leafage  set  forth 
the  fate  of  Venetian  pride  ; and,  in  their  utmost  luxuriance  and 
abandonment,  perish  as  if  eaten  of  worms. 

And  now,  by  glancing  back  to  Plate  X.  Vol.  II.,  the  reader 
will  see  ir\.  a moment  the  kind  of  evidence  which  is  found  of  the 
date  of  capitals  in  their  profiles  merely.  Observe  : we  have  seen 
that  the  treatment  of  the  leaves  in  the  Madonnetta  House  seemed 
indicative  of  a tendency  to  transition.’’  Note  their  profile,  la, 
and  its  close  correspondence  with  1 h,  which  is  actually  of  a 
transitional  capital  from  the  upper  arcade  of  second  order 
windows  in  the  Apostoli  Palace  ; yet  both  shown  to  be  very 
close  to  the  Byzantine  period,  if  not  belonging  to  it,  by  their 
fellowship  with  the  profile  i,  from  the  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 
Then  note  the  close  correspondence  of  all  the  other  profiles  in 
that  line,  which  belong  to  the  concave  capitals  or  plinths  of  the 
Byzantine  palaces,  and  note  their  composition,  the  abacus  being, 
in  idea,  merely  an  echo  or  reduplication  of  the  capital  itself ; as 
seen  in  perfect  simplicity  in  the  profile  /,  which  is  a roll  under 


m.  CAPITALS. 


10.  FIKAL  APPENDIX.  ' 


243 


a tall  concave  curve  forming  the  bell  of  the  capital,  with  a roll 
and  short  concave  curve  for  its  abacus.  This  peculiar  abacus  is 
an  unfailing  test  of  early  date  ; and  our  finding  this  simple  pro- 
file used  for  the  Ducal  Palace  (/),  is  strongly  confirmatory  of  all 
our  former  conclusions. 

Then,  the  pext  row,  2,  are  the  Byzantine  and  early  Gothic 
semi-convex  curves,  in  their  pure  forms,  having  no  roll  below  ; 
but  often  with  a roll  added,  as  at  /,  and  in  certain  early  Gothic 
conditions  curiously  fused  into  it,  with  a cavetto  between,  as  h, 
c,  d.  But  the  more  archaic  form  is  as  at  / and  h ; and  as  these 
two  profiles  are  from  the  Ducal  Palace  and  Piazzetta  shafts,  they 
join  again  with  the  rest  of  the  evidence  of  their  early  date.  The 
profiles  i and  k are  both  most  beautiful  ; i is  that  of  the  great 
capitals  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  and  tlie  small  profiles  between  it 
and  k are  the  varieties  used  on  the  fillet  at  its  base.  The  profile 
i should  have  had  leaves  springing  from  it,  as  1 h has,  only  more 
boldly,  but  there  was  no  room  for  them. 

The  reader  cannot  fail  to  discern  at  a glance  the  fellowship 
of  the  whole  series  of  profiles,  2 « do  k,  nor  can  he  but  with  equal 
ease  observe  a marked  difference  in  4 and  4 e from  any  others 
in  the  plate ; the  bulging  outlines  of  leafage  being  indicative  of 
the  luxuriant  and  flowing  masses,  no  longer  expressible  with  a 
simple  line,  but  to  be  considered  only  as  confined  within  it,  of 
the  later  Gothic.  Now  d is  a dated  profile  from  the  tomb  of 
St.  Isidore,  1355,  which  by  its  dog-tooth  abacus  and  heavy  leaf- 
age distinguishes  itself  from  all  the  other  profiles,  and  therefore 
throws  them  back  into  the  first  half  of  the  century.  But,  ob- 
serve, it  still  retains  the  noble  swelling  root.  This  character 
soon  after  vanishes  ; and,  in  1380,  the  profile  e,  at  once  heavy, 
feeble,  and  ungraceful,  with  a meagre  and  valueless  abacus 
hardly  discernible,  is  characteristic  of  all  the  capitals  of  Venice. 

Note,  finally,  this  contraction  of  the  abacus.  Compare  4 c, 
which  is  the  earliest  form  in  the  plate,  from  Murano,  with  4 e, 
which  is  the  latest.  The  other  profiles  show  the  gradual  pro- 
cess of  change  ; only  observe,  in  the  abacus  is  not  drawn  ; it 
is  so  bold  that  it  would  not  come  into  the  plate  without  reducing 
the  bell  curve  to  too  small  a scale. 

So  much  for  the  evidence  derivable  from  the  capitals ; we 
have  next  to  examine  that  of  the  archivolts  or  arch  mouldings. 


244 


10.  FTN^AL  APPENDIX. 


IV.  ARCHIYOLTS. 


IV,  ArchivoUs, 

In  Plate  VIII.,  opposite,  are  arranged  in  one  view  all  the 
conditions  of  Byzantine  archivolt  employed  in  Venice,  on  a large 
scale.  It  will  be  seen  in  an  instant  that  there  can  be  no  mis- 
taking the  manner  of  their  masonry.  The  sofBt  of  the  arch  is 
the  horizontal  line  at  the  bottom  of  all  these  profiles,  and  each  of 
them  (except  13,  14)  is  composed  of  two  slabs  of  marble,  one 
for  the  soffit,  another  for  the  face  of  the  arch;  the  one  on  the 
soffit  is  worked  on  the  edge  into  a roll  (fig.  10)  or  dentil  (fig.  9), 
and  the  one  on  the  face  is  bordered  on  the  other  side  by  another 
piece  let  edgeways  into  the  wall,  and  also  worked  into  a roll  or 
dentil:  in  the  richer  archi volts  a cornice  is  added  to  this  roll,  as 
in  figs.  1 and  4,  or  takes  its  place,  as  in  figs.  1,  3,  5,  and  6;  and 
in  such  richer  examples  the  facestone,  and  often  the  soffit,  are 
sculptured,  the  sculpture  being  cut  into  their  surfaces,  as  indi- 
cated in  fig.  11.  The  concavities  cut  in  the  facestones  of  1,  2,  4, 
5,  6 are  all  indicative  of  sculpture  in  effect  like  that  of  Fig. 
XXVI.  Vol.  II.,  of  which  archivolt  fig.  5,  here,  is  the  actual 
profile.  The  following  are  the  references  to  the  whole  : 


Plate  VIII. 
Vol.  III. 


1.  Eio-Foscari  House. 

2.  Terraced  House,  entrance  door. 

3.  Small  Porticos  of  St.  Mark’s,  external  arches. 

4.  Arch  on  the  canal  at  Ponte  St.  Toma. 

5.  Arch  of  Corte  del  Eemer. 

6.  Great  outermost  archivolt  of  central  door,  St. 

Mark’s. 

7.  Inner  archivolt  of  southern  porch,  St.  Mark’s 

Fa9ade. 

8.  Inner  archivolt  of  central  entrance,  St.  Mark’s. 

9.  Fondaco  de’  Turchi,  main  arcade. 

10.  Byzantine  restored  house  on  Grand  Canal,  lower 

arcade. 

11.  Terraced  House,  upper  arcade. 

12.  Inner  archivolt  of  northern  porch  of  fagade,  St. 

Mark’s. 

13  and  14  Transitional  forms. 


1-  • 


BYZANTINE  ARCHIVOLTS. 


IX 


GOTHIC  ARCHIVOLTS. 


TV.  ARCmVOLTS. 


10.  Vn^AL  APPENDIX. 


215 


There  is  little  to  be  noted  respecting  these  formS;,  except  that, 
in  fig.  the  two  lower  rolls,  with  the  angular  projections  be- 
tween, represent  the  fall  of  the  mouldings  of  two  proximate 
arches  on  the  abacus  of  the  bearing  shaft ; their  two  cornices 
meeting  each  other,  and  being  gradually  narrowed  into  the  little 
angular  intermediate  piece,  their  sculptures  being  slurred  into 
the  contracted  space,  a curious  proof  of  the  earliness  of  the 
work.  The  real  archivolt  moulding  is  the  same  as  fig.  4:  c c, 
including  only  the  midmost  of  the  three  rolls  in  fig.  1. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  2,  5,  6,  and  8 are  sculptured  on  the 
soffits  as  well  as  the  faces  ; 9 is  the  common  profile  of  arches 
decorated  only  with  colored  marble,  the  facestone  being  colored, 
the  soffit  white.  The  effect  of  such  a moulding  is  seen  in  the 
small  windows  at  the  right  hand  of  Fig.  XXVI.  Vol.  II. 

The  reader  will  now  see  that  there  is  but  little  difficulty  in 
identifying  Byzantine  work,  the  archivolt  mouldings  being  so 
similar  among  themselves,  and  so  unlike  any  others.  We  have 
next  to  examine  the  Gothic  forms. 

Figs.  13  and  14  in  Plate  VIII.  represent  the  first  brick 
mouldings  of  the  transitional  period,  occurring  in  such  instances 
as  Fig.  XXIIL  or  Fig.  XXXIII.  Vol.  II.  (the  soffit  stone  of  the 
Byzantine  mouldings  being  taken  away),  and  this  profile,  trans- 
lated into  solid  stone,  forms  the  almost  universal  moulding  of 
the  windows  of  the  second  order.  These  two  brick  mouldings 
are  repeated,  for  the  sake  of  comparison,  at  the  top  of  Plate  IX. 
opposite ; and  the  upper  range  of  mouldings  which  they  com- 
mence, in  that  plate,  are  the  brick  mouldings  of  Venice  in  the 
early  Gothic  period.  All  the  forms  below  are  in  stone  ; and  the 
moulding  2,  translated  into  stone,  forms  the  universal  archivolt 
of  the  early  pointed  arches  of  Venice,  and  windows  of  second 
and  third  orders.  The  moulding  1 is  much  rarer,  and  used  for 
the  most  part  in  doors  only. 

The  reader  will  see  at  once  the  resemblance  of  character  in 
the  various  flat  brick  mouldings,  3 to  11.  They  belong  to  such 
arches  as  1 and  2 in  Plate  XVII.  Vol.  II.;  or  6 5,  6 (?,  in  Plate 
XIV.  Vol.  II.,  7 and  8 being  actually  the  mouldings  of  those 
two  doors ; the  whole  group  being  perfectly  defined,  and  sepa- 
rate from  all  the  other  Gothic  work  in  Venice,  and  clearly  the 
result  of  an  elfort  to  imitate,  in  brickwork,  the  effect  of  the  flat 


10.  FIXAL  APPENDIX. 


IV.  AHCHIVOLTS, 


^46 

sciilpfciiied  arcliivolts  of  the  Byzantine  times.  (See  Yol.  II 
Chap.  VII.  § xxxvii.)  i 

Then  comes  the  group  14  to  18  in  stone,  derived  from  the 
mouldings  1 and  2;  first  by  truncation,  14;  then  by  beadino 
the  tiuncated  angle,  15,  16.  The  occurrence  of  the  jn’ofile  16 
in  the  three  beautiful  windows  represented  in  the  uppermost 
figure  of  Plate  XVIII.  Vol.  I.  renders  that  group  of  peculiar 
mterest,  and  is  strong  evidence  of  its  antiquity.  Then  a cavetto 
is  added,  17;  first  shallow  and  then  deeper,  18,  which  is  the 
common  archivolt  moulding  of  the  central  Gothic  door  and  win- 
dow : but,  in  the  windows  of  the  early  fourth  order,  this  mould- 
ing is  complicated  by  various  additions  of  dog-tooth  mouldings 
under  the  dentil,  as  in  20;  or  the  gabled  dentil  (see  fig.  20  Plate 
IX.  Yol.  I.),  as  fig.  21;  or  both,  as  figs  23,  24.  All  these  varie- 
ties expire  in  the  advanced  period,  and  the  established  mould- 
ing for  windows  is  29.  The  intermediate  group,  25  to  28,  I 
found  only  in  the  high  windows  of  the  third  order  in  the  Ducal 
Palace,  or  in  the  Chapter-house  of  the  Frari,  or  in  the  arcades  of 
the  Ducal  Palace;  the  great  outside  lower  arcade  of  the  Ducal 
Palace  has  the  profile  31,  the  left-hand  side  being  the  inner-! 
most.  ; 

Now  observe,  all  these  archivolts,  without  exception,  assume 
that  the  spectator  looks  from  the  outside  only:  none  are  complete; 
on  both  sides;  they  are  essentially  windoiv  mouldings,  and  have ' 
no  resemblance  to  those  of  our  perfect  Gothic  arches  prepared  for 
traceries.  If  they  were  all  completely  drawn  in  the  plate,  they 
should  be  as  fig.  25,  having  a great  depth  of  wall  behind  the  i 
mouldings,  but  it  was  useless  to  represent  this  in  every  case.  < 
The  Ducal  Palace  begins  to  show  mouldings  on  both  sides,  28,  31;  I 
and  35  is  a complete  arch  moulding  from  the  apse  of  the  Frari.  | 
That  moulding,  though  so  perfectly  developed,  is  earlier  than  the  ' 
Ducal  Palace,  and  with  other  features  of  the  building,  indicates  * 
the  completeness  of  the  Gothic  sptem,  which  made  the  archi- 
tect of  the  Ducal  Palace  found  his  work  principally  upon  that 
church. 

The  other  examples  in  this  plate  show  the  various  modes  of 
combination  employed  in  richer  archivolts.  The  triple  change 
of  slopie  in  38  is  veiy  curious.  The  references  are  as  follows : 


IT.  AKCHIYOLTS. 


10.  FI^s^AL  APPEJ^DIX. 


24-7 


1.  Transitional  to  the  second  order. 

2.  Common  second  order. 

3.  Brick,  at  Corte  del  Forno,  Bound  arch. 

4.  Door  at  San  Giovanni  Grisostomo. 

5.  Door  at  Sotto  Portico  della  Stna. 

6.  Door  in  Campo  St.  Luca,  of  rich  brickwork. 

7.  Kound  door  at  Fondamenta  Venier. 

8.  Pointed  door.  Fig.  Plate  XIV.  Yol.  II. 

9.  Great  pointed  arch,  Salizzada  San  Lio. 

10.  Pound  door  iiear  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

11.  Door  with  Lion,  at  Ponte  della  Corona. 

12.  San  Gregorio,  Facade. 

13.  St.  John  and  Paul,  Xave. 

14.  Rare  early  fourth  order,  at  San  Cassan. 

15.  General  early  Gothic  archivolt. 

Plate  . game,  from  door  in  Rio  San  G.  Grisostomo. 

^ * '17.  Casa  Vittura. 

18.  Casa  Sagredo,  Unique  thirds.  Vol.  II. 

19.  Murano  Palace,  Unique  fourths.* 

20.  Pointed  door  of  Four-Evangelist  House,  f 

21.  Keystone  door  in  Campo  St.  M.  Formosa. 

22.  Rare  fourths,  at  St.  Pantaleon. 

23.  Rare  fourths,  Casa  Papadopoli. 

24.  Rare  fourths.  Chess  house.  J 

25.  Thirds  of  Frari  Cloister. 

26.  Great'pointed  arch  of  Frari  Cloister. 

27.  Unique  thirds.  Ducal  Palace. 

28.  Inner  Cortile,  pointed  arches.  Ducal  Palace. 

29.  Common  fourth  and  fifth  order  Archivolt. 

30.  Unique  thirds.  Ducal  Palace. 

31.  Ducal  Palace,  lower  arcade. 

* Close  to  the  bridge  over  the  main  channel  through  Murano  is  a mas- 
sive foursquare  Gothic  palace,  containing  some  curious  traceries,  and  many 
unique  transitional  forms  of  window,  among  which  these  windows  of  the 
fourth  order  occur,  with  a roll  within  their  dentil  band. 

f Thus,  for  the  sake  of  convenience,  we  may  generally  call  the  palace 
with  the  emblems  of  the  Evangelists  on  its  spandrils,  Vol.  II. 

X The  house  with  chequers  like  a chess-board  on  its  spandrils,  given  hi 
my  folio  work. 


248 


10.  FINAL  APPENDIX. 


V.  CORNICEa 


32.  Casa  Priuli,  arches  in  the  inner  court. 

33.  Circle  above  the  central  window,  Ducal  Palace. 

34.  Murano  apse. 

35.  Acute-pointed  arch,  Frari. 

Plate  IX.  36.  Door  of  Accademia  delle  belle  Arti. 

Vol.  III.  37.  Door  in  Calle  Tiossi,  near  Four-Evangelist  House. 

38.  Door  in  Campo  San  Polo. 

39.  Door  of  palace  at  Ponte  Marcello. 

40.  Door  of  a palace  close  to  the  Church  of  the  Mira- 

coli. 

F.  Cornices. 

Plate  X.  represents,  in  one  view,  the  cornices  or  string- 
courses of  Venice,  and  the  abaci  of  its  capitals,  early  and  late  ; 
these  two  features  being  inseparably  connected,  as  explained  in 
Vol.  I. 

The  evidence  given  by  these  mouldings  is  exceedingly  clear. 
The  two  upper  lines  in  the  Plate,  1—11,  12—24,  are  all  plinths 
from  Byzantine  buildings.  The  reader  will  at  once  observe 
their  unmistakable  resemblances.  The  row  41  to  50  are  contem- 
porary abaci  of  capitals ; 52,  53,  54,  56,  are  examples  of  late 
Gothic  abaci  ; and  observe,  especially,  these  are  all  rounded  at 
the  top  of  the  cavetto,  but  the  Byzantine  abaci  are  rounded,  if 
at  all,  at  the  lottom  of  the  cavetto  (see  7,  8,  9,  10,  20,  28,  46). 
Consider  what  a valuable  test  of  date  this  is,  in  any  disputable 
building. 

Again,  compare  28,  29,  one  from  St.  Mark’s,  the  other  from 
the  Ducal  Palace,  and  observe  the  close  resemblance,  giving  far- 
ther evidence  of  early  date  in  the  palace. 

25  and  50  are  drawn  to  the  same  scale.  The  former  is  the 
wall-cornice,  the  latter  the  abacus  of  the  great  shafts,  in  the 
Casa  Loredan ; the  one  passing  into  the  other,  as  seen  in  Fig. 
>i.XVIII.  Vol.  I.  It  is  curious  to  watch  the  change  in  propor- 
tion, wiiile  the  moulding,  all  but  the  lower  roll,  remains  the 
same. 

The  following  are  the  references: 

Plate  X.  1.  Common  plinth  of  St.  Mark’s. 

\ol.  HI.  2.  Plinth  above  lily  capitals,  St.  Mark’s. 


X. 


CORNICES  AND  ABACI. 


'W 


r.  CORNICES. 


10.  FIKAL  APPENDIX. 


249 


Plate  X. 
VoL  III 


3,  4.  Plinths  in  early  surface  Gothic, 

5.  Plinth  of  door  in  Campo  St.  Luca. 

6.  Plinth  of  treasury  door,  St.  Mark’s. 

7.  Archivolts  of  nave,  St.  Mark’s. 

8.  Archivolts  of  treasury  door,  St.  Mark’s. 

9.  Moulding  of  circular  window  in  St.  John  and 

Paul. 

10.  Chief  decorated  narrow  plinth,  St.  Mark’s. 

11.  Plinth  of  door,  Campo  St.  Margherita. 

12.  Plinth  of  tomb  of  Doge  Vital  Falier. 

13.  Lower  plinth,  Fondaco  de’  Turchi,  and  Terraced 

House. 

14.  Punning  plinth  of  Corte  del  Eemer. 

15.  Highest  plinth  at  top  of  Fondaco  de’  Turchi 

16.  Common  Byzantine  plinth. 

17.  Eunning  plinth  of  Casa  Falier, 

18.  Plinth  of  arch  at  Ponte  St.  Toma. 

19.  20,  21.  Plinths  of  tomb  of  Doge  Vital  Falier. 

22.  Plinth  of  window  in  Calle  del  Pistor. 

23.  Plinth  of  tomb  of  Dogaressa  Vital  Michele. 

24.  Archivolt  in  the  Frari. 

25.  Eunning  plinth,  Casa  Loredan. 

26.  Eunning  plinth,  under  pointed  arch,  in  Salizzad^. 

San  Lio. 

27.  Eunning  plinth,  Casa  Erizzo. 

28.  Circles  in  portico  of  St.  Mark’s. 

29.  Ducal  Palace  cornice,  lower  arcade. 

30.  Ducal  Palace  cornice,  upper  arcade. 

31.  Central  Gothic  plinth. 

32.  Late  Gothic  plinth. 

33.  Late  Gothic  plinth,  Casa  degli  Ambasciatori 

34.  Late  Gothic  plinth.  Palace  near  the  Jesuiti. 

35.  36.  Central  balcony  cornice. 

37.  Plinth  of  St.  Mark’s  balustrade. 

38.  Cornice  of  the  Frari,  in  brick,  cabled. 

39.  Central  balcony  plinth. 

40.  Il23permost  cornice,  Ducal  Palace. 

41.  Abacus  of  lily  capitals,  St.  Mark’s. 

42.  Abacus,  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 


260 


10.  FIKAL  APPENDIX. 


VI,  TRACERIE& 


Plate  X. 
Vol.  III. 


43o  Abacus,  large  capital  of  Terraced  House. 

44.  Abacus,  Fondaco  de’  Turchi. 

45.  Abacus,  Ducal  Palace,  upper  arcade. 

46.  Abacus,  Corte  del  Remer. 

47.  Abacus,  small  pillars,  St.  Mark’s  pulpit, 

48.  Abacus,  Murano  and  Torcello, 

49.  Abacus,  Casa  Farsetti. 

50.  Abacus,  Casa  Loredan,  lower  story, 

51.  Abacus,  capitals  of  Frari. 

52.  Abacus,  Casa  Cavalli  (plain). 

53.  Abacus,  Casa  Priuli  (flowered). 

54.  Abacus,  Casa  Foscari  (plain). 

55.  Abacus,  Casa  Priuli  (flowered). 

56.  Abacus,  Plate  II.  fig.  15. 

57.  Abacus,  St.  John  and  Paul. 

58.  Abacus,  St.  Stefano. 


It  is  only  farther  to  be  noted,  that  these  mouldings  are  used 
in  various  proportions,  for  all  kinds  of  purposes:  sometimes  for 
true  cornices;  sometimes  for  window-sills;  sometimes,  3 and  4 
(in  the  Gothic  time)  especially,  for  dripstones  of  gables:  11  and 
such  others  form  little  plinths  or  abaci  at  the  spring  of  arches, 
such  as  those  shown  at  a.  Fig.  XXIII.  Vol.  II.  Finally,  a large 
number  of  superb  Byzantine  cornices  occur,  of  the  form  shown 
at  the  top  of  the  arch  in  Plate  V.  Vol.  II.,  having  a profile  like 
16  or  19  here;  with  nodding  leaves  of  acanthus  thrown  out 
from  it,  being,  in  fact,  merely  one  range  of  the  leaves  of  a By- 
zantine capital  unwrapped,  and  formed  into  a continuous  line. 
I had  prepared  a large  mass  of  materials  for  the  illustration  of 
these  cornices,  and  the  Gothic  ones  connected  with  them;  but 
found  the  subject  would  take  up  another  volume,  and  was  forced^ 
for  the  present,  to  abandon  it.  The  lower  series  of  profiles,  7 
to  12  in  Plate  XV.  Vol.  I.,  shows  how  the  leaf-ornament  is  laid 
on  the  simple  early  cornices. 


VL  Traceries. 

We  have  only  one  subject  more  to  examine,  the  character  of 
the  early  and  late  Tracery  Bars. 


VI.  TRACERIES. 


10.  FIKAL  APPENDIX. 


251 


The  reader  may  perhaps  have  been  surprised  at  the  small  at- 
tention given  to  traceries  in  the  course  of  the  preceding  volumes: 
but  the  reason  is,  that  there  are  no  complicated  traceries  at  A^en- 
ice  belonging  to  the  good  Gothic  time,  with  the  single  exception 
of  those  of  the  Casa  Cicogna;  and  the  magnificent  arcades  of  the 
Ducal  Palace  Gothic  are  so.  simple  as  to  require  little  explana- 
tion. 

There  are,  however,  two  curious  circumstances  in  the  later 
traceries;  the  first,  that  they  are  universally  considered  by  the 
builder  (as  the  old  Byzantines  considered  sculptured  surfaces  of 
stone)  as  material  out  of  which  a certain  portion  is  to  ie  cut,  to 
fill  his  window.  A fine  Northern  Gothic  tracery  is  a complete 
and  systematic  arrangement  of  arches  and  foliation,  adj listed  to 
the  form  of  the  window;  but  a Venetian  tracery  is  a piece  of  a 
larger  composition,  cut  to  the  shape  of  the  window.  In  the 
Porta  della  Carta,  in  the  Church  of  the  Madonna  dell’  Orto,  in 
the  Casa  Bernardo  on  the  Grand  Canal,  in  the  old  Church  of  the 
Misericordia,  and  wherever  else  there  are  ricli  traceries  in  Venice, 
it  will  always  be  found  that  a certain  arrangement  of  quatrefoils 
and  other  figures  has  been  planned  as  if  it  were  to  extend  indefi- 
nitely into  miles  of  arcade;  and  out  of  this  colossal  piece  of  marble 
lace,  a piece  in  the  shape  of  a window  is  cut,  mercilessly  and 
fearlessly;  whatever  fragments  and  odd  shapes  of  interstice, 
remnants  of  this  or  that  figure  of  the  divided  foliation,  may  oc- 
cur at  the  edge  of  the  window,  it  matters  not;  all  are  cut  across, 
and  shut  in  by  the  great  outer  archivolt. 

It  is  very  curious  to  find  the  Venetians  treating  what  in  other 
countries  became  of  so  great  individual  importance,  merely  as  a 
kind  of  diaper  ground,  like  that  of  their  chequered  colors  on  the 
walls.  There  is  great  grandeur  in  the  idea,  though  the  system 
of  their  traceries  was  spoilt  by  it : but  they  always  treated  their 
buildings  as  masses  of  color  rather  than  of  line;  and  the  great 
traceries  of  the  Ducal  Palace  itself  are  not  spared  any  more  than 
those  of  the  minor  palaces.  They  are  cut  off  at  the  flanks  in  the 
middle  of  the  quatrefoils,  and  the  terminal  mouldings  take  u]3 
part  of  the  breadth  of  the  poor  half  of  a quatrefoil  at  the  ex- 
tremity. 

One  other  circumstance  is  notable  also.  In  good  Northern 
Gothic  the  tracery  bars  are  of  a constant  profile,  the  same  on 


252 


10.  riKAL  APPENDIX. 


VI.  TRACERIES. 


botli  sides;  and  if  the  plan  of  the  tracery  leaves  any  interstices 
so  small  that  there  is  not  room  for  the  full  profile  of  the  tracery 
bar  all  round  them,  those  interstices  are  entirely  closed,  the 
tracery  bars  being  supposed  to  have  met  each  other.  But  in 
Venice,  if  an  interstice  becomes  anywhere  inconveniently  small, 
the  tracery  bar  is  sacrificed;  cut  away,  or  in  some  way  altered  in 
profile,  in  order  to  afford  more  room  for  the  light,  especially  in 
the  early  traceries,  so  that  one  side  of  a tracery  bar  is  often 
quite  different  from  the  other.  For  instance,  in  the  bars  1 and 
2,  Plate  XI.,  from  the  Frari  and  St.  John  and  Paul,  the  upper- 
most side  is  tov/ards  a great  opening,  and  there  was  room  for  the 
bevel  or  slope  to  the  cusp;  but  in  the  other  side  the  opening  was 
too  small,  and  the  bar  falls  vertically  to  the  cusp.  In  5 the  up- 
permost side  is  to  the  narrow  aperture,  and  the  lower  to  the  small 
one;  and  in  fig.  9,  from  the  Casa  Cicogna,  the  uppermost  side 
is  to  the  apertures  of  the  tracery,  the  lowermost  to  the  arches 
beneath,  the  great  roll  following  the  design  of  the  tracery;  while 
13  and  14  are  left  without  the  roll  at  the  base  of  their  cavettos 
on  the  uppermost  sides,  which  are  turned  to  narrow  apertures. 
The  earliness  of  the  Casa  Cicogna  tracery  is  seen  in  a moment 
by  its  being  moulded  on  the  face  only.  It  is  in  fact  nothing 
more  than  a series  of  quatrefoiled  apertures  in  the  solid  wall  of 
the  house,  with  mouldings  on  their  faces,  and  magnificent  arches 
of  pure  pointed  fifth  order  sustaining  them  below. 

The  following  are  the  references  to  the  figures  in  the  plate: 


1. 

2. 

3. 

4. 

5. 

6. 

Plate  XI.  7. 
VoL  III.  8. 

9. 

10. 

12. 

13. 


Frari. 

Apse,  St.  John  and  Paul. 

Frari. 

Ducal  Palace,  inner  court,  upper  window. 
Madonna  dell’  Orto. 

St.  John  and  Paul. 

Casa  Bernardo. 

Casa  Contarini  Fasan. 

Casa  Cicogna. 

11.  Frari. 

Murano  Palace  (see  note,  p.  265). 
Misericord  ia. 


XI 


rRACERY  BARS. 


i 

i 


VI.  TRACERIES. 


10.  FIKAL  APPEKDIX. 


14.  Palace  of  the  younger  Foscari.* 

15.  Casa  d’  Oro ; great  single  windows. 

16.  Hotel  Danieli. 

17.  Ducal  Palace. 

18.  Casa  Erizzo^  on  Grand  Canal. 

19.  Main  story,  Casa  Cavalli. 

Plate  XI.  20.  Younger  Foscari. 

Vol.  III.  21.  Ducal  Palace,  traceried  windows. 

22.  Porta  della  Carta. 

23.  Casa  d’  Oro. 

24.  Casa  d’Oro,  up23er  story. 

25.  Casa  Facanon. 

26.  Casa  Cavalli,  near  Post-Office. 

It  will  be  seen  at  a glance  that,  excei3t  in  the  very  early  fillet 
traceries  of  the  Frari  and  St.  John  and  Paul,  Venetian  work 
consists  of  roll  traceries  of  one  general  pattern.  It  will  be  seen 
also,  that  10  and  11  from  the  Frari,  furnish  the  first  examples  of 
the  form  afterwards  completely  developed  in  17,  the  tracery  bar 
of  the  Ducal  Palace ; but  that  this  bar  differs  from  them  in 
greater  strength  and  squareness,  and  in  adding  a recess  between 
its  smaller  roll  and  the  cusp.  Observe,  that  this  is  done  for 
strength  chiefly  ; as,  in  the  contemporary  tracery  (21)  of  the 
upper  windows,  no  sueh  additional  thickness  is  used. 

Figure  17  is  slightly  inaccurate.  The  little  curved  recesses 
behind  the  smaller  roll  are  not  equal  on  each  side  ; that  next  the 
cusp  is  smallest,  being  about  f of  an  inch,  while  that  next  the 
cavetto  is  about  ; to  such  an  extent  of  subtlety  did  the  old 
builders  carry  their  love  of  change. 

The  return  of  the  cavetto  in  21,  23,  and  26,  is  comparatively 
rare,  and  is  generally  a sign  of  later  date. 

The  reader  must  observe  that  the  great  sturdiness  of  the  form 
of  the  bars,  5,  9,  17,  24,  25,  is  a consequence  of  the  peculiar 
office  of  Venetian  traceries  in  supporting  the  mass  of  the  build- 
ing above,  already  noticed  in  Vol.  II.;  and  indeed  the  forms  of 

* The  palace  next  the  Casa  Foscari,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  sometimes  said 
to  have  belonged  to  the  son  of  the  Doge. 


254  -10.  FINAL  APPENDIX.  vi.  TRACERIEa 

the  Venetian  Gothic  are,  in  many  other  ways,  influenced  by 
the  difllculty  of  obtaining  stability  on  sandy  foundations.  One 
thing  is  especially  noticeable  in  all  their  arrangements  of 

traceries;  namely,  the  endeavor  to  ob- 
tain equal  and  horizontal  pressure 
along  the  whole  breadth  of  the  build- 
ing, not  the  divided  and  local  pres- 
sures of  Northern  Gothic.  This  ob-  ; 
ject  is  considerably  aided  by  the 
structure  of  the  balconies,  which  are 
of  great  service  in  knitting  the  shafts 
together,  forming  complete  tie-beams 
of  marble,  as  well  as  a kind  of  rivets,  . 
at  their  bases.  For  instance,  at  5,  ; 
Fig.  II.,  is  represented  the  masonry  ; 
of  the  base  of  the  upper  arcade  of  the  i 
Ducal  Palace,  showing  the  root  of  i 
one  of  its  main  shafts,  with  the  bind-  I 
ing  balconies.  The  solid  stones’ 
which  form  the  foundation  are  much' 
broader  than  the  balcony  shafts,  so' 
that  the  socketed  arrangement  is  not  ‘ 
seen  : it  is  shown  as  it  would  appear  ; . 
in  a longitudinal  section.  The  bal- 1 
conies  are  not  let  into  the  circular' 
shafts,  but  fitted  to  their  circular 
curves,  so  as  to  grasp  them,  and  riveted  with  metal ; and  the 
bars  of  stone  which  form  the  tops  of  the  balconies  are  of  great  J 

strength  and  depth,  the  ] 
small  trefoiled  arches  be- 1 
ing  cut  out  of  them  as  in  ^ 
Fig.  III.,  so  as  hardly  toy 
diminish  their  binding 
power.  In  the  lighter  in- 
dependent balconies  they 
are  often  cut  deeper  ; but 
in  all  cases  the  bar  of  stone 
is  nearly  independent  of  the  small  shafts  placed  beneath  it,  and  | 
would  stand  firm  though  these  were  removed,  as  at  a,  Fig.  II., 


CUSPS. 


10.  Fli^-AL  APPENDIX. 


255 


supported  either  by  the  main  shafts  of  the  traceries,  or  by  its 
own  small  pilasters  with  semi-shafts  at  their  sides,  of  the  plan 
^ Fio-.  II.,  in  a continuous  balcony,  and  e at  the  angle  of  one. 

There  is  one  more  very  curious  circumstance  illustrative  of 
the  Venetian  desire  to  obtain  horizontal  pressure.  In  all  the 
Gothic  staircases  with  which  I am  acquainted,  out  of  Venice,  in 
which  vertical  shafts  are  used  to  support  an  inclined  line,  those 
shafts  are  connected  by  arches  rising  each  above  the  other,  with 
a little  bracket  above  the  capitals,  on  the  side  where  it  is  neces- 
sary to  raise  the  arch  ; or  else,  though  less  gracefully,  with  a 
longer  curve  to  the  lowest  side  of  the  arch. 

But  the  Venetians  seem  to  have  had  a morbid  horror  of 
arches  which  Avere  not  on  a,  level.  They  could  not  endure  the 
appearance  of  the  roof  of  one  arch  bearing  against  the  side  of 
another ; and  rather  than  introduce  the  idea  of  obliquity  into 
bearing  curves,  they  abandoned  the  arch  principle  altogether  ; so 
that  even  in  their  richest  Gothic  staircases,  where  trefoiled 
arches,  exquisitely  decorated,  are  used  on  the  landings,  they  ran 
the  shafts  on  "the  sloping  stair  simply  into  the  bar  of  stone  above 
them,  and  used  the  excessively  ugly  and  valueless  arrangement 
of  Fig.  II.,  rather  than  sacrifice  the  sacred  horizontality  of  their 
arch  system. 

It  will  be  noted,  in  Plate  XI.,  that  the  form  and  character  of 
the  tracery  bars  themselyes  are  independent  of  the  position  oi 
projection  of  the  cusps  on  their  flat  sides.  In  this  respect,  also, 


Fig.  IV. 


1 2 3 4 5 


Venetian  traceries  are  peculiar,  the  example  22  of  the  Porta  della 
Carta  being  the  only  one  in  the  plate  which  is  subordinated  ac- 


256  10;  FIKAL  APPENDIX.  CPSPal 

1 

cording  to  the  Northern  system.  In  every  other  case  the  form  -J 
of  the  aperture  is  determined^  either  by  a flat  and  solid  cusp  as  " 
in  6^  or  by  a pierced  cusp  as  in  4.  The  effect  of  the  pierced 
cusp  is  seen  in  the  uppermost  figure,  Plate  XVIII.  Vol.  II.;  and 
its  deriyation  from  the  solid  cusp  will  be  understood,  at  once, 
from  the  woodcut  Fig.  IV.,  which  represents  a series  of  the 
flanking  stones  of  any  arch  of  the  fifth  order,  such  as  f in  Plate 
III.  Vol.  I. 

The  first  on  the  left  shows  the  condition  of  cusp  in  a per- 
fectly simple  and  early  Gothic  arch,  2 and  3 are  those  of  common 
arches  of  the  fifth  order,  4 is  the  condition  in  more  studied  ex- 
amples of  the  Gothic  advanced  guard,  and  5 connects  them  all 
with  the  system  of  traceries.  Introducing  the  common  archivolt 
mouldings  on  the  projecting  edge  of  2 and  3,  we  obtain  the  bold 
and  deep  fifth  order  window,  used  down  to  the  close  of  the  four- 
teenth century  or  even  later,  and  always  grand  in  its  depth  of 
cusp,  and  consequently  of  shadow ; but 
the  narrow  cusp  4 occurs  also  in  very 
early  work,  and  is  piquant  when  set  be- 
neath a bold  flat  archivolt,  as  in  Fig. 

V.,  from  the  Corte  del  Forno  at  Santa 
Marina.  The  pierced  cusp  gives  a pe- 
culiar lightness  and  brilliancy  to  the 
window,  but  is  not  so  sublime.  In  the 
richer  buildings  the  surface  of  the  flat 
and  solid  cusp  is  decorated  with  a shal- 
low trefoil  (see  Plate  VIII.  Vol.  I.),  or, 

W'hen  the  cusp  is  small,  with  a triangu- 
lar incision  only,  as  seen  in  figs.  7 and  8,  Plate  XI.  The  recesses  | 
on  the  sides  of  the  other  cusps  indicate  their  single  or  double  ' 
lines  of  foliation.  The  cusp  of  the  Ducal  Palace  has  a fillet  only 
round  its  edge,  and  a ball  of  red  marble  on  its  truncated  point,  - ' 
and  is  perfect  in  its  grand  simplicity ; but  in  general  the  cusps 
of  Venice  are  far  inferior  to  those  of  Verona  and  of  the  other 
cities  of  Italy,  chiefly  because  there  was  always  some  confusion 
in  the  mind  of  the  designer  between  true  cusps  and  the  mere  ; 
bending  inwards  of  the  arch  of  the  fourth  order.  The  two  se- 
ries,  4 a to  4 6,  and  5 to  5 6,  in  Plate  XIV.  Vol.  II.,  are  ^ 
arranged  so  as  to  show  this  connexion,  as  well  as  the  varieties  of  3 


Fig.  V. 


CUSPS. 


10.  FIKAL  APPENDIX. 


25 


curvature  in  the  trefoiled  arches  of  the  fourth  and  fifth  orders^ 
which;,  though  apparently  slight  on  so  small  a scale,  are  of  enor- 
mous importance  in  distant  effeet ; a house  in  which  the  joints 
of  the  cusps  project  as  much  as  in  5 being  quite  piquant  and 
grotesque  when  compared  with  one  in  which  the  cusps  are  sub- 
dued to  the  form  5 and  4 e are  Veronese  forms,  wonder- 

fully effective  and  spirited  ; the  latter  occurs  at  Verona  only,  but 
the  former  at  Venice  also.  5 d occurs  in  Venice,  but  is  very 
rare  ; and  6 e 1 found  only  once,  on  the  narrow  canal  close  to 
the  entrance  door  of  the  Hotel  Danieli.  It  was  partly  w^alled  up, 
but  I obtained  leave  to  take  down  the  brickwork  and  lay  open 
one  side  of  the  arch,  which  may  still  be  seen. 


• The  above  particulars  are  enough  to  enable  the  reader  to 
judge  of  the  distinctness  of  eyidence  which  the  details  of  Vene- 
tian architecture  bear  to  its  dates.  Farther  explanation  of  the 
plates  would  be  vainly  tedious  : but  the  architect  who  uses  these 
volumes  in  Venice  will  find  them  of  value,  in  enabling  him 
instantly  to  class  the  mouldings  which  may  interest  him  ; and 
for  this  reason  I have  given  a larger  number  of  examples  thaji 
would  otherwise  have  been  sufficient  for  my  purpose. 


I^fDIOES. 


I.  PERSONAL  INDEX.  III.  TOPICAL  INDEX. 

II.  LOCAL  INDEX.  IV.  VENETIAN  INDEX. 


The  first  of  the  following  Indices  contains  the  names  of 
persons;  the  second  those  of  places  (not  in  Venice)  alluded  to  in 
the  body  of  the  work.  The  third  Index  consists  of  references  to 
the  subjects  touched  upon.  In  the  fourth^  called  the  Venetian 
Index,  I have  named  every  building  of  importance  in  the  city  of 
Venice  itself,  or  near  it;  supplying,  for  the  convenience  of  the 
traveller,  short  notices  of  those  to  which  I had  no  occasion  to 
allude  in  the  text  of  the  work;  and  making  the  whole  as  com- 
plete a guide  as  I could,  with  such  added  directions  as  I should 
have  given  to  any  private  friend  visiting  the  city.  As,  however, 
in  many  cases,  the  opinions  I haye  expressed  differ  widely  from 
those  usually  received;  and,  in  other  instances,  subjects  which 
may  be  of  much  interest  to  the  traveller  have  not  come  within 
the  scope  of  my  inquiry;  the  reader  had  better  take  Lazari’s 
small  Guide  in  his  hand  also,  as  he  will  find  in  it  both  the  infor- 
mation I have  been  unable  to  furnish,  and  the  expression  of  most 
of  the  received  opinions  upon  any  subject  of  art. 

Various  inconsistencies  will  be  noticed  in  the  manner  of  in- 
dicating the  buildings,  some  being  named  in  Italian,  some  in 
English,  and  some  half  in  one,  and  half  in  the  other.  But  these 
inconsistencies  are  permitted  in  order  to  save  trouble,  and  make 
the  Index  more  practically  useful.  For  instance,  I believe  the 
traveller  will  generally  look  for  Mark,’’  rather  than  for  Marco,” 
when  he  wishes  to  find  the  reference  to  St.  Mark’s  Church;  but 
I think  he  will  look  for  Rocco,  rather  than  for  Roch,  when  he  is 
seeking  for  the  account  of  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco.  So  also  I 
have  altered  the  character  in  Avhich  the  titles  of  the  plates  ar^ 


260 


EXPLAKATOKY  KOTE. 


])rinted^  from  the  black  letter  in  the  first  volume,  to  the  plain 
Eoman  in  the  second  and  third;  finding  experimentally  that  the 
former  character  was  not  easily  legible,  and  conceiving  that  the 
book  would  be  none  the  worse  for  this  practical  illustration  of  its 
own  principles,  in  a daring  sacrifice  of  symmetry  to  convenience. 

These  alphabetical  Indices  will,  however,  be  of  little  use,  unless 
another,  and  a very  different  kind  of  Index,  be  arranged  in  the 
mind  of  the  reader;  an  Index  explanatory  of  the  principal  pur- 
poses and  contents  of  the  various  parts  of  this  essay.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  analyze  the  nature  of  the  reluctance  with  which  either  a 
writer  or  painter  takes  it  upon  him  to  explain  the  meaning  of  his 
own  work,  even  in  cases  where,  without  such  explanation,  it 
must  in  a measure  remain  always  disputable : but  I am  persuaded 
that  this  reluctance  is,  in  most  instances,  carried  too  far;  and 
that,  wherever  there  really  is  a serious  purpose  in  a book  or  a 
picture,  the  author  does  wrong  who,  either  in  modesty  or  vanity 
(both  feelings  have  their  share  in  producing  the  dislike  of  per- .. 
sonal  interpretation),  trusts  entirely  to  the  patience  and  intelli-  . 
gence  of  the  readers  or  spectators  to  penetrate  into  their  signifi-  ^ 
cance.  At  all  events,  I will,  as  far  as  possible,  spare  such  trouble  ; 
with  respect  to  these  volumes,  by  stating  here,  finally  and  clearly,  • 
both  what  they  intend  and  what  they  contain;  and  this  the  . 
rather  because  I have  lately  noticed,  with  some  surprise,  certain  ^ 
reviewers  announcing  as  a discovery,  what  I thought  had  lain  ; 
palpably  on  the  surface  of  the  book,  namely,  that  if  Mr.  Eus- 
kin  be  right,  all  the  architects,  and  all  the  architectural  teaching 
of  the  last  three  hundred  years,  must  have  been  wrong.”  That 
is  indeed  precisely  the  fact;  and  the  very  thing  I meant  to  say,  ] 
which  indeed  I thought  I had  said  over  and  over  again.  I be-  . . 
lieve  the  architects  of  the  last  three  centuries  to  have  been  wrong; 
wrong  without  exception;  wrong  totally,  and  from  the  founda- 
tion. This  is  exactly  the  point  I have  been  endeavoring  to  prove, 
from  the  beginning  of  this  work  to  the  end  of  it.  But  as  it  | 
seems  not  yet  to  have  been  stated  clearly  enough,  I will  here  fi'J  f 
to  put  my  entire  theorem  into  an  unmistakable  form.  I 

The  various  nations  who  attained  eminence  in  the  arts  before 
the  time  of  Christ,  each  of  them,  produced  forms  of  architecture  B 
which  in  their  various  degrees  of  merit  were  almost  exactly  in- j 
dicative  of  the  degrees  of  intellectual  and  moral  energy  of  the  -^ 


EXPLANATORY  NOTE. 


2G1 


nations  which  originated  them;  and  each  reached  its  greatest 
perfection  at  the  time  when  the  true  energy  and  prosperity  of  the 
people  who  had  invented  it  were  at  their  culminating  point. 
Many  of  these  various  styles  of  architecture  were  good,  consid- 
ered in  relation  to  the  times  and  races  which  gave  birth  to  them; 
but  none  were  absolutely  good  or  perfect,  or  fitted  for  the  prac- 
tice of  all  future  time. 

The  advent  of  Christianity  for  the  first  time  rendered  possible 
the  full  development  of  the  soul  of  man,  and  therefore  the  full 
development  of  the  arts  of  man. 

Christianity  gave  birth  to  a new  architecture,  not  only  im- 
measurably superior  to  all  that  had  preceded  it,  but  demonstrably 
the  best  architecture  that  can  exist;  perfect  in  construction  and 
decoration,  and  fit  for  the  practice  of  all  time. 

This  architecture,  commonly  called  Gothic,”  though  in 
conception  perfect,  like  the  theory  of  a Christian  character, 
never  reached  an  actual  perfection,  having  been  retarded  and 
corrupted  by  various  adverse  influences;  but  it  reached  its  high- 
est perfection^  hitherto  manifested,  about  the  close  of  the  thir- 
teenth century,  being  then  indicative  of  a peculiar  energy  in  the 
Christian  mind  of  Europe. 

In  the  course  of  the  fifteenth  century,  owing  to  various  causes 
which  I have  endeavored  to  trace  in  the  preceding  pages,  the 
Christianity  of  Europe  was  undermined;  and  a Pagan  architec- 
ture was  introduced,  in  imitation  of  that  of  the  Greeks  and 
Eomans. 

The  architecture  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans  themselves  was 
not  good,  but  it  was  natural;  and,  as  I said  before,  good  in  some 
respects,  and  for  a particular  time. 

But  the  imitative  architecture  introduced  first  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  and  practised  ever  since,  was  neither  good  nor  natural. 
It  was  good  in  no  respect,  and  for  no  time.  All  the  architects 
who  have  built  in  that  style  have  built  what  was  worthless;  and 
therefore  the  greater  part  of  the  architecture  which  has  been 
built  for  the  last  three  hundred  years,  and  which  we  are  now 
building,  is  worthless.  We  must  give  up  this  style  totally,  despise 
it  and  forget  it,  and  build  henceforward  only  in  that  perfect  and 
Christian  style  hitherto  called  Gothic,  which  is  everlastingly  the 
best. 


2G2 


EXPLANATORY  NOTE. 


This  is  the  theorem  of  these  volumes. 

In  support  of  this  theorem,  the  first  volume  contains,  in  its 
first  chapter,  a sketch  of  the  actual  history  of  Christian  archi- 
tecture, up  to  the  period  of  the  Reformation;  and,  in  the  subse- 
quent chapters,  an  analysis  of  the  entire  system  nf  the  laws  of 
architectural  construction  and  decoration,  deducing  from  those 
laws  positive  conclusions  as  to  the  best  forms  and  manners  of 
building  for  all  time. 

The  second  volume  contains,  in  its  first  five  chapters,  an  ac- 
count of  one  of  the  most  important  and  least  known  forms  of 
Christian  architecture,  as  exhibited  in  Venice,  together  with  an 
analysis  of  its  nature  in  the  fourth  chapter;  and,  which  is  a pecu- 
liarly important  part  of  this  section,  an  account  of  the  power  of 
color  over  the  human  mind. 

The  sixth  chapter  of  the  second  volume  contains  an  analysis 
of  the  nature  of  Gothic  architecture,  properly  so  called,  and 
shows  that  in  its  external  form  it  complies  precisely  with  the 
abstract  laws  of  structure  and  beauty,  investigated  in  the  first 
volume.  The  seventh  and  eighth  chapters  of  the  second  volume 
illustrate  the  nature  of  Gothic  architecture  by  various  Venetian 
examples.  The  third  volume  investigates,  in  its  first  chapter, 
the  causes  and  manner  of  the  corruption  of  Gothic  architecture; 
in  its  second  chapter,  defines  the  nature  of  the  Pagan  architec- 
ture which  superseded  it;  in  the  third  chapter,  shows  the  con- 
nexion of  that  Pagan  architecture  with  the  various  characters  of 
mind  which  brought  about  the  destruction  of  the  Venetian 
nation;  and,  in  the  fourth  chapter,  points  out  the  dangerous 
tendencies  in  the  modern  mind  which  the  practice  of  such  an 
architecture  indicates. 

Such  is  the  intention  of  the  preceding  pages,  which  I hop<i 
will  no  more  be  doubted  or  mistaken.  As  far  as  regards  the 
manner  of  its  fulfilment,  though  I hope,  in  the  course  of  other 
inquiries,  to  add  much  to  the  elucidation  of  the  points  in  dispute, 
I cannot  feel  it  necessary  to  apologize  for  the  imperfect  handling 
of  a subject  which  the  labor  of  a long  life,  had  I been  able  to 
bestow  it,  must  still  have  left  imperfectly  treated. 


PEESO^TAL  II^DEX. 


A 

Alberti,  Duccio  degli,  his  tomb,  iii.  74,  80. 

Alexander  III.,  his  defence  by  Venetians,  i.  7. 

Ambrose,  St.,  his  verbal  subtleties,  ii.  320. 

Angelico,  Fra,  artistical  power  of,  i.  400  ; his  influence  on  Protes- 
tants, ii.  105  ; his  coloring,  ii.  145. 

Aristotle,  his  evil  influence  on  the  modern  mind,  ii.  319. 
Averulinus,  his  book  on  architecture,  iii.  63. 

B 

Barbaro,  monuments  of  the  family,  iii.  125. 

Barbarossa,  Emperor,  i.  7,  9. 

Baseggio,  Pietro,  iii.  199. 

Bellini,  John,  i.  11  ; his  kindness  to  Albert  Durer,  i.  383  ; 
general  power  of,  see  Venetian  Index,  under  head  Gio- 
vanni Grisostomo Gentile,  his  brother,  iii.  21. 

Berti,  Bellincion,  ii.  263. 

Browning,  Elizabeth  B. , her  poetry,  ii.  206. 

Bunsen,  Chevalier,  his  work  on  Eomanesque  Churches,  ii.  381. 
Bunyan,  John,  his  portraiture  of  constancy,  ii.  333  ; of  patience, 
ii.  334  ; of  vanity,  ii.  346  ; of  sin,  iii.  147. 

C 

Calendario,  Filippo,  iii.  199. 

Canaletto,  i.  24  ; and  see  Venetian  Index  under  head  ^^Carita.^’ 
Canova,  i.  217  ; and  see  Venetian  Index  under  head  Frari.” 
Cappello,  Vincenzo,  his  tomb,  iii.  122. 

Caracci,  school  of  the,  i.  24, 


2G1 


I.  PEKSOJ^AL  INDEX. 


Cary,  liis  translation  of  Dante,  ii.  264. 

Cavalli,  Jacopo,  his  tomb,  iii.  82. 

Cicero,  influence  of  his  philosophy,  ii.  317,  318. 

Claude  Lorraine,  i.  24. 

Comnenus,  Manuel,  ii.  263. 

Cornaro,  Marco,  his  tomb,  iii.  79. 

Correggio,  ii.  192. 

Crabbe,  naturalism  in  his  poetry,  ii.  195. 

D 

Dandolo,  Andrea,  tomb  of,  ii.  70 ; Francesco,  tomb  of,  iii.  74  ; 

character  of,  iii.  76  ; Simon,  tomb  of,  iii.  79, 

Dante,  his  central  position,  ii.  340,  iii.  158  ; his  system  of  vir- 
tue, ii.  323  ; his  portraiture  of  sin,  iii.  147. 

Daru,  his  character  as  a historian,  iii.  213. 

Dolci,  Carlo,  ii.  105. 

Dolflno,  Giovanni,  tomb  of,  iii.  78. 

Durer,  Albert,  his  rank  as  a landscape  painter,  i.  383  ; his 
power  in  grotesque,  iii.  145. 

E 

Edwin,  King,  his  conversion,  iii.  62. 

F 

Faliero,  Bertuccio,  his  tomb,  iii.  94 ; Marino,  his  house,  ii. 

254  ; Vitale,  miracle  in  his  time,  ii.  61. 

Fergusson,  James,  his  system  of  beauty,  i.  388. 

Foscari,  Francesco,  his  reign,  i.  4,  iii.  165  ; his  tomb,  iii.  84  ; 
his  countenance,  iii.  86. 

G 

Garbett,  answer  to  Mr.,  i.  403. 

Ghiberti,  his  sculpture,  i.  217. 

Giotto,  his  system  of  the  virtues,  ii.  323,  329,  341;  his  rank  as 
a painter,  ii.  188,  iii.  172. 

Giulio  Romano,  i.  23. 

Giustiniani,  Marco,  his  tomb,  i.  315  ; Sebastian,  ambassador  to 
England,  iii.  224. 

Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  his  piety,  iii.  62. 

Gozzoli,  Benozzo,  ii.  195. 


I.  PEllSOKAL  INDEX. 


2G5 


Gradenigo,  Pietro,  ii.  290. 

Grande,  Can,  della  Scala,  his  tomb,  i.  268  (the  cornice  g in 
Plate  XVI.  is  taken  from  it),  iii.  71. 

Guariento,  his  Paradise,  ii.  296. 

Giiercino,  ii.  105. 

H 

Hamilton,  Colonel,  his  paper  on  the  Serapeum,  ii.  220. 

Hobbima,  iii.  184. 

Hunt,' William,  his  painting  of  peasant  boys,  ii.  192  ; of  still 
life,  ii.  394. 

Hunt,  William  Holman,  relation  of  his  works  to  modern  and 
ancient  art,  iii.  185. 

K 

Knight,  Gaily,  his  work  on  Architecture,  i.  378. 

L 

Leonardo  da  Vinci,  ii.  171. 

Louis  XL,  iii.  194. 

M 

Martin,  John,  ii.  104. 

Mastino,  Can,  della  Scala,  his  tomb,  ii.  224,  iii.  72. 

Maynard,  Miss,  her  poems,  ii.  397. 

Michael  Angelo,  ii.  134,  188,  iii.  56,  90,  99,  158. 

Millais,  John  E.,  relation  of  his  works  to  older  art,  iii.  185; 

aerial  perspective  in  his  Huguenot,’’  iii.  47. 

Milton,  how  inferior  to  Dante,  iii.  147. 

Mocenigo,  Tomaso,  his  character,  i.  4 ; his  speech  on  rebuilding 
the  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  299;  his  tomb,  i.  26,  iii.  84. 

Morosini,  Carlo,  Count,  note  on  Darn’s  History  by,  iii.  213. 
Morosini,  Marino,  his  tomb,  iii.  93. 

Morosini,  Michael,  his  character,  iii.  213;  his  tomb,  iii.  80. 
Murillo,  his  sensualism,  ii.  192. 

N 

Xapoleon,  his  genius  in  civil  administration,  i.  399. 

Niccolo  Pisano,  i.  215. 

0 

Orcagna,  his  system  of  the  virtues,  ii.  329. 

Orseolo,  Pietro  (Doge),  iii.  120. 

Oiho  the  Great,  his  vow  at  Murano,  ii.  32. 


266 


I.  PEKSOi^AL  li^DEX. 


P 

Palladio,  i.  24,  146  ; and  see  Venetian  Index,  under  head 
Giorgio  Maggiore.’^ 

Participazio,  Angelo,  founds  the  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  287. 

Pesaro,  Giovanni,  tomb  of,  iii.  92 ; Jacopo,  tomb  of,  iii.  91. 
Philippe  de  Commynes,  i.  12. 

Plato,  influence  of  his  philosophy,  ii.  317,  338 ; his  playfulness^, 
iii.  127. 

Poussin,  Nicolo  and  Gaspar,  i.  23. 

Procaccini,  Camillo,  ii.  188. 

Prout,  Samuel,  his  style,  i.  250,  iii.  19,  134. 

Pugin,  Welby,  his  rank  as  an  architect,  i.  385. 

Q 

Querini,  Marco,  his  palace,  ii.  255. 

E 

Kaffaelle,  ii.  188,  iii.  56,  108,  136. 

Keynolds,  Sir  J.,  his  painting  at  New  College,  ii.  323  ; his 
general  manner,  iii.  184. 

Eogers,  Samuel,  his  works,  ii.  195,  iii.  113. 

Eubens,  intellectual  rank  of,  i.  400  ; coarseness  of,  ii.  145. 

S 

Salvator  Eosa,  i.  24,  ii.  105,  145,  188. 

Scaligeri,  tombs  of,  at  Verona;  see  ^‘Grande,”  ^^Mastino,’’ 
Signorio;’’  palace  of,  ii.  257. 

Scott,  Sir  W.,  his  feelings  of  romance,  iii.  191. 

Shakspeare,  his  Seven  Ages,”  whence  derived,  ii.  361. 

Sharpe,  Edmund,  his  works,  i.  342,  408. 

Signorio,  Can,  della  Scala,  his  tomb,  character,  i.  268,  iii.  73. 
Simplicius,  St.,  ii.  356. 

Spenser,  value  of  his  philosophy,  ii.  327,  341  ; his  personiflcations 
of  the  months,  ii.  272;  his  system  of  the  virtues,  ii.  326; 
scheme  of  the  first  book  of  the  Faerie  Queen,  iii.  205. 

Steno,  Michael,  ii.  306;  his  tomb,  ii.  296. 

Stothard  (the  painter),  his  works,  ii.  187,  195. 

Symmachus,  St.,  ii.  357. 


I.  PERSONAL  IKDEX. 


20? 


T 

Teniers,  David,  ii.  188. 

Tiepolo,  Jacopo  and  Lorenzo,  tlieir  tombs,  iii.  69  ; Bajamonte, 
ii.  255. 

Tintoret,  i.  12 ; his  genius  and  function,  ii.  149  ; his  Paradise, 
ii.  304,  372  ; his  rank  among  the  men  of  Italy,  iii.  158. 

Titian,  i.  12;  his  function  and  fall,  ii.  149,  187. 

Turner,  his  rank  as  a landscape  painter,  i.  382,  ii.  187. 

U 

Uguccione,  Benedetto,  destroys  Giotto’s  facade  at  Florence,  i. 
197. 

V 

Vendramin,  Andrea  (Doge),  his  tomb,  i.  27,  iii.  88. 

Verocchio,  Andrea,  iii.  11,  13. 

Veronese,  Paul,  artistical  rank  of,  i.  400;  his  designs  of  balus- 
trades, ii.  247  ; and  see  in  Venetian  Index,  Ducal  Palace,” 
^^Pisani,”  Sebastian,”  Eedentore,”  Accademia.” 

W 

West,  Benjamin,  ii.  104. 

Wordsworth,  his  observation  of  nature,  i.  247  (note). 

Z 

Zeno,  Carlo,  i.  4,  iii.  80. 

Ziani,  Sebastian  (Doge),  builds  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  289, 


II. 


LOCAL  II^DEX. 


A 


Abbeville,  door  of  church  at,  ii.  235;  parapet  at,  ii.  345. 
Alexandria,  Church  at,  i.  381. 

Alhambra,  ornamentation  of,  i.  439. 

Alps,  how  formed  for  distant  effect,  i.  347;  how  seen  from  Ven- 
ice, ii,  3,  38. 

Amiens,  pillars  of  Cathedral  at,  i.  103. 

Arqua,  hills  of,  how  seen  from  Venice,  ii.  3. 

Assisi,  Giotto’s  paintings  at,  ii.  333.  ‘ 

-S 

B ^ 

Beauvais,  piers  of  Cathedral  at,  i.  93 ; grandeur  of  its  buttress  ■ 
structure,  i.  170. 

Bergamo,  Duomo  at,  i.  375. 

Bologna,  Palazzo  Pepoli  at,  i.  375.  * 

Bourges,  Cathedral  at,  i.  43,  103,  338,  371,  399;  ii.  93,  186;  i 
house  of  Jacques  Coeur  at,  i.  346.  | 


C 


Chamouni,  glacier  forms  at,  i.  333. 

Como,  Broletto  of,  i.  141,  339. 

D 

Dijon,  pillars  in  Church  of  Notre  Dame  at,  i.  103 ; tombs  c 
Dukes  of  Burgundy,  iii.  68. 

E 

Edinburgh,  college  at,  i.  307. 


■J 


II.  LOCAL  liTDEX. 


F 

Falaise  (St.  Gervaise  at),  piers  of,  i.  103. 

Florence,  Cathedral  of,  i.  197,  iii.  13. 

G 

Gloucester,  Cathedral  of,  i.  192. 

L 

Lombardy,  geology  of,  ii.  5. 

London,  Church  in  Margaret  Street,  Portland  Place,  iii.  196; 
Temple  Church,  i.  412;  capitals  in  Belgrave  and  Grosvenor 
Squares,  i.  330;  Bank  of  England,  base  of,  i.  283;  wall  of, 
typical  of  accounts,  i.  295;  statue  in  King  William  Street, 
i.  210;  shops  in  Oxford  Street,  i.  202;  Arthur  Club-house, 
i.  295;  Athenaeum  Club-house,  i.  157,  283;  Duke  of  York’s 
Pillar,  i.  283;  Treasury,  i.  205;  Whitehall,  i.  205;  Westmin- 
ster, fall  of  houses  at,  ii.  268;  Monument,  i.  82,  283;  Nel- 
son Pillar,  i.  216;  Wellington  Statue,  i.  257. 

Lucca,  Cathedral  of,  ii.  275;  San  Michele  at,  i.  375. 

Lyons,  porch  of  cathedral  at,  i.  379. 

M 

Matterhorn  (Mont  Cervin),  structure  of,  i.  58;  lines  of,  applied 
to  architecture,  i.  308,  310,  332. 

Mestre,  scene  in  street  of,  i.  355. 

Milan,  St.  Ambrogio,  piers  of,  i.  102;  capital  of,  i.  324;  St.  Eu- 
stachio,  tomb  of  St.  Peter  Martyr,  i.  218. 

Moulins,  brickwork  at,  i.  296. 

Murano,  general  aspect  of,  ii.  29;  Duomo  of,  ii.  32;  balustrades 
of,  ii.  247;  inscriptions  at,  ii.  384. 

N 

Nineveh,  style  of  its  decorations,  i.  234,  239;  iii.  159. 

0 

Orange  (South  France),  arch  at,  i.  250. 

Orleans,  Cathedral  of,  i.  95. 

P 

Padua,  Arena  chapel  at,  ii.  324;  St.  Antonio  at,  i.  135;  St.  Sofia 
at,  i.  327;  Eremitani,  Church  of,  at,  i.  135, 


II.  LOCAL  II^^^DEX. 


r:0 

Paris,  Hotel  des  Inyalides,  i.  214;  Arc  de  I’Etoile,  i.  291 ; Co- 
lonne  Vendome,  i.  212. 

Payia,  St.  Michele  at,  piers  of,  i.  102,  337;  ornaments  of,  i.  376. 
Pisa,  Baptistery  of,  ii.  275. 

Pistoja,  San  Pietro  at,  i.  295. 

E 

Eayenna,  situation  of,  ii.  6. 

Kouen,  Cathedral,  piers  of,  i.  103,  153;  pinnacles  of,  ii.  213;  St. 
Maclou  at,  sculptures  of,  ii.  197. 

S 

Salisbury  Cathedral,  piers  of,  i.  102;  windows  at,  ii.  224. 

Sens,  Cathedral  of,  i.  135. 

Switzerland,  cottage  architecture  of,  i.  156,  203,  iii.  133. 

V 

Verona,  San  Fermo  at,  i.  136,  ii.  259;  Sta.  Anastasia  at,  i.  142; 
Duomo  of,  i.  373;  St.  Zeno  at,  i.  373;  balconies  at,  ii.  247; 
archiyolt  at,  i.  335  ; tombs  at,  see  in  Personal  Index, 
Grande,’’  ^^Mastino,”  ^^Signorio.” 

Yeyay,  architecture  of,  i.  136. 

Vienne  (South  France),  Cathedral  of,  i.  274. 

W 

Warwick,  Guy’s  tower  at,  i.  168. 

Wenlock  (Shropshire),  Abbey  of,  i.  270. 

Winchester,  Cathedral  of,  i.  192. 

fl:  •; 


York,  Minster  of,  i.  205,  313. 


III. 

TOPICAL  II^DEX. 


A 

Abacus,  defined,  i.  107  ; law  of  its  proportion,  i.  111-115  ; its 
connection  with  cornices,  i.  116;  its  Yarious  profiles,  i.  BIO- 
SES; iii.  243-248. 

Acanthus,  leaf  of,  its  use  in  architecture,  i.  233;  how  treated  at 
Torcello,  ii.  15. 

Alabaster,  use  of,  in  incrustation,  ii.  86. 

Anachronism,  necessity  of,  in  the  best  art,  ii.  198. 

Anatomy,  a disadvantageous  study  for  artists,  iii.  47. 

Angels,  use  of  their  images  in  Venetian  heraldry,  ii.  278;  statues 
of,  on  the  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  311. 

Anger,  how  symbolically  represented,  ii.  344. 

Angles,  decoration  of,  i.  260;  ii.  305;  of  Gothic  Palaces,  ii.  238; 
of  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  307. 

Animal  character  in  northern  and  southern  climates,  ii.  156;  in 
grotesque  art,  iii.  149. 

Apertures,  analysis  of  their  structure,  i.  50 ; general  forms  of, 

i.  174. 

Apse,  forms  of,  in  southern  and  northern  churches  compared,  i. 
170. 

Arabesques  of  Eaffaelle,  their  baseness,  iii.  136. 

Arabian  architecture,  i.  18,  234,  235,  429;  ii.  135. 

Arches,  general  structure  of,  i.  122;  moral  characters  of,  i.  126 ; 
lancet,  round,  and  depressed,  i.  129;  four-centred,  i.  130; 
ogee,  i.  131;  non-concentric,  i.  133,  341;  masonry  of,  i.  133, 

ii.  218;  load  of,  i.  144;  are  not  derived  from  vegetation,  ii. 

201. 


m 


III.  TOPICAL  INDEX. 


A.rchitects^  modern^  their  unfortunate  position,  i.  404,  407. 

A^rchitecture,  general  view  of  its  divisions,  i.  47-51 ; how  to 
judge  of  it,  ii.  173;  adaptation  of,  to  requirements  of  hu- 
man mind,  iii.  192;  richness  of  early  domestic,  ii.  100,  hi. 

2;  manner  of  its  debasement  in  general,  iii.  3. 

Archivolts,  decoration  of,  i.  334;  general  families  of,  i.  335;  of 
Murano,  ii.  49;  of  St.  Mark’s,  ii.  95;  in  London,  ii.  97;  By- 
zantine, ii.  138;  profiles  of,  iii.  244. 

Arts,  relative  dignity  of,  i.  395  ; how  represented  in  Venetian 
sculpture,  ii.  355  ; what  relation  exists  between  them  and 
their  materials,  ii.  394;  art  divided  into  the  art  of  facts,  of 
design,  and  of  both,  ii.  183;  into  purist,  naturalist,  and  sen- 
sualist, ii.  187  ; art  opposed  to  inspiration,  iii.  151 ; de- 
fined, iii.  170  ; distinguished  from  science,  iii.  35  ; how  to  - 
enjoy  that  of  the  ancients,  iii.  188. 

Aspiration,  not  the  primal  motive  of  Gothic  work,  i.  151. 

Astrology,  judicial,  representation  of  its  doctrines  in  Venetian 
sculpture,  ii.  352. 

Austrian  government  in  Italy,  iii.  209. 

Avarice,  how  represented  figuratively,  ii.  344. 

B 

Backgrounds,  diapered,  iii.  20.  i 

Balconies,  of  Venice,  ii.  243  ; general  treatment  of,  iii.  254;  of  ^ 
iron,  ii.  247. 

Ballflower,  its  use  in  ornamentation,  i.  279. 

Balustrades.  See  Balconies.”  ' 

Bases,  general  account  of,  iii.  225;  of  walls,  i.  55;  of  piers,  i.  73;  ^ 

of  shafts,  i.  84;  decoration  of,  i.  281;  faults  of  Gothic  profiles  s 
of,  i.  285;  spurs  of,  i.  286;  beauty  of,  in  St.  Mark’s,  i.  290;  ' I 
Lombardic,  i.  292;  ought  not  to  be  richly  decorated,  i.  292;.  i 
general  effect  of,  ii.  387. 

Battlements,  i.  162;  abuse  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  219. 

Beauty  and  ornament,  relation  of  the  terms,  i.  404. 

Bellstones  of  capitals  defined,  i.  108. 

Birds,  use  of  in  ornamentation,  i.  234,  ii.  140. 

Bishops,  their  ancient  authority,  ii.  25. 

Body,  its  relation  to  the  souJ,  i.  41,  395. 

Brackets,  division  of,  i.  161;  ridiculous  forms  of,  i.  161. 


III.  TOPICAL  INDEX. 


273 


Breadth  in  Byzantine  design,  ii.  133. 

Brickwork,  ornamental,  i.  296;  in  general,  ii.  241,  260,  261. 

Brides  of  Venice,  legend  of  the,  iii.  113,  116. 

Buttresses,  general  structure  of,  i.  166;  flying,  i.  192;  supposed 
sanctity  of,  i.  173. 

Bull,  symbolical  use  of,  in  representing  rivers,  i.  418,  421,  424. 

Byzantine  style,  analysis  of,  ii.  75;  ecclesiastical  fitness  of,  ii.  97; 
centralization  in,  ii.  236;  palaces  built  in,  ii.  118;  sculptures 
in,  ii.  137,  140. 

C 

Candlemas,  ancient  symbols  of,  ii.  272. 

Capitals,  general  structure  of,  i.  105;  bells  of,  i.  107;  just  pro- 
portions of,  i.  114;  various  families  of,  i.  13,  65,  324,  ii.  129, 
iii.  231;  are  necessary  to  shafts  in  good  architecture,  i.  119; 
Byzantine,  ii.  131,  iii.  231;  Lily,  of  St.  Mark’s,  ii.  137;  of 
Solomon’s  temple,  ii.  137. 

Care,  how  symbolized,  ii.  348.  See  Sorrow.” 

Caryatides,  i.  302. 

Castles,  English,  entrances  of,  i.  177. 

Cathedrals,  English,  effect  of,  ii.  63. 

Ceilings,  old  Venetian,  ii.  280. 

Centralization  in  design,  ii.  237. 

Chalet  of  Switzerland,  its  character,  i.  203. 

Chamfer  defined,  i.  263;  varieties  of,  i.  262,  429. 

Changefulness,  an  element  of  Gothic,  ii.  172. 

Charity,  how  symbolized,  ii.  327,  339. 

Chartreuse,  Grande,  morbid  life  in,  iii.  190. 

Chastity,  how  symbolized,  ii.  328. 

Cheerfulness,  how  symbolized,  ii.  326,  348;  virtue  of,  ii.  326. 

Cherries,  cultivation  of,  at  Venice,  ii.  361. 

Christianity,  how  mingled  with  worldliness,  iii.  109  ; how  im- 
perfectly understood,  iii.  168  ; influence  of,  in  liberating 
workmen,  ii.  159,  i.  243;  influence  of,  on  forms,  i.  99. 

Churches,  wooden,  of  the  North,  i,  381;  considered  as  ships,  ii. 
25;  decoration  of,  how  far  allowable,  ii.  102. 

Civilization,  progress  of,  iii.  168;  two-fold  danger  of,  iii.  169. 

Classical  literature,  its  effect  on  the  modern  mind,  iii.  12. 

Climate,  its  influence  on  architecture,  i.  151,  ii.  155,  203; 


274 


III.  TOPICAL  I2STDEX. 


Color,  its  importance  in  early  work,  ii,  38,  40,  7&,  91  j its  spiritu- 
ality, ii.  145,  396;  its  relation  to  music,  iii.  186;  quartering 
of,  iii.  20;  how  excusing  realization,  iii.  186. 

Commerce,  how  regarded  by  Venetians,  i.  6. 

Composition,  definition  of  the  term,  ii.  182. 

Constancy,  how  symbolized,  ii.  333. 

Construction,  architectural,  how  admirable,  i.  36. 

Convenience,  how  consulted  by  Gothic  architecture,  ii.  179. 

Cornices,  general  divisions  of,  i.  63,  iii.  248;  of  walls,  i.  60;  of 
roofs,  i.  149;  ornamentation  of,  i.  305;  curvatures  of,  i.  310; 
military,  i.  160;  Greek,  i.  157. 

Courses  in  walls,  i.  60. 

Crockets,  their  use  in  ornamentation,  i.  346;  their  abuse  at  Ve- 
nice, iii.  109. 

Crosses,  Byzantine,  ii.  139. 

Crusaders,  character  of  the,  ii.  263. 

Crystals,  architectural  appliance  of,  i.  225. 

Cupid,  representation  of,  in  early  and  later  art,  ii.  342. 

Curvature,  on  what  its  beauty  depends,  i.  222,  iii.  5. 

Cusps,  definition  of,  i.  135;  groups  of,  i.  138;  relation  of,  to  vege- 
tation, ii.  219;  general  treatment  of,  iii.  255;  earliest  occur- 
rence of,  ii.  220. 

D 

Daguerreotype,  probable  results  of,  iii.  169. 

Darkness,  a character  of  early  churches,  ii.  18;  not  an  abstract 
evil,  iii.  220. 

Death,  fear  of,  in  Kenaissance  times,  iii.  65,  90,  92;  how  ancient- 
ly regarded,  iii.  139, 156. 

Decoration,  true  nature  of,  i.  405;  how  to  judge  of,  i.  44,  45.  See 
Ornament.’’ 

Demons,  nature  of,  how  illustrated  by  Milton  and  Dante,  iii, 
147. 

Dentil, Venetian,  defined,  i.  273,  275. 

Design,  definition  of  the  term,  ii.  183;  its  relations  to  naturalism, 
ii.  184. 

Despair,  how  symbolized,  ii.  334. 

Diapei  patterns  in  brick,  i.  296;  in  color,  iii.  21,  22. 

Discord,  how  symbolized,  ii.  333. 


III.  TOPICAL  IXDEX. 


Discs,  decoration  by  means  of,  i.  240,  41G;  ii.  147,  264. 

Division  of  labor,  evils  of,  ii.  165. 

Doge  of  Venice,  his  power,  i.  3,  360. 

Dogtooth  moulding  defined,  i.  269. 

Dolphins,  moral  disposition  of,  i.  230;  use  of,  in  symbolic  repre- 
sentation of  sea,  i.  422,  423. 

Domestic  architecture,  richness  of,  in  middle  ages,  ii.  99. 

Doors,  general  structure  of,  i.  174,  176;  smallness  of  in  English 
cathedrals,  i.  176;  ancient  Venetian,  ii.  277,  hi.  227. 

Doric  architecture,  i.  157,  301,  307;  Christian  Doric,  i.  308,  315. 

Dragon,  conquered  by  St.  Donatus,  ii.  33;  use  of,  in  ornamenta- 
tion, ii.  219. 

Dreams,  how  resembled  by  the  highest  arts,  hi.  153;  prophetic, 
in  relation  to  the  Grotesque,  hi.  156. 

Dress,  its  use  in  ornamentation,  i.  212;  early  Venetian,  ii.  383; 
dignity  of,  hi.  191;  changes  in  modern  dress,  hi.  192. 

Duties  of  buildings,  i.  47. 

E 

Earthquake  of  1511,  ii.  242. 

Eastern  races,  their  power  over  color,  ii.  147. 

Eaves,  construction  of,  i.  156. 

Ecclesiastical  architecture  in  Venice,  i.  20;  no  architecture  ex- 
clusively ecclesiastical,  ii.  99. 

Edge  decoration,  i.  268. 

Education,  University,  i.  391;  hi.  110;  evils  of,  with  respect  to 
architectural  workmen,  ii.  107;  howto  be  successfully  under- 
taken, ii.  165,  214;  modern  education  in  general,  how  mis- 
taken, hi.  110,  234;  system  of,  in  Plato,  ii.  318;  of  Persian 
kings,  ii.  318;  not  to  be  mistaken  for  erudition,  hi.  219; 
ought  to  be  universal,  hi.  220. 

Egg  and  arrow  mouldings,  1.  314. 

Egyptian  architecture,  i.  99,  239;  li.  203. 

Elgin  marbles,  ii.  171. 

Encrusted  architecture,  i,  271,  272;  general  analysis  of,  ii.  76. 

Energy  of  Northern  Gothic,  i.  371;  ii.  16,  204. 

English  (early)  capitals,  faults  of,  i.  100,  411;  English  mind,  its 
mistaken  demands  of  perfection,  li.  160. 

Envy,  how  set  forth,  ii.  346. 

Evangelists,  types  of,  how  explicable,  hi.  155. 


276 


III.  TOPICAL  IKDEX. 


F 

Faerie  Queen,  Spenser’s,  value  of,  theologically,  ii.  328. 

Faith,  influence  of  on  art,  ii.  104,  105;  Titian’s  picture  of,  i.  11; 

how  symbolized,  ii.  337. 

Falsehood,  how  symbolized,  ii.  349. 

Fatalism,  how  expressed  in  Eastern  architecture,  ii.  205. 

Fear,  effect  of,  on  human  life,  hi.  137;  on  Grotesque  art,  iii.  142. 
Feudalism,  healthy  effects  of,  i.  184. 

Fig-tree,  sculpture  of,  on  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  307. 

Fillet,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  267. 

Finials,  their  use  in  ornamentation,  i.  346;  a sign  of  decline  in 
Venetian  architecture,  iii.  109. 

Finish  in  workmanship,  when  to  be  required,  ii.  165;  dangers  of, 
iii.  170,  ii.  162. 

Fir,  spruce,  influence  of,  on  architecture,  i.  152. 

Fire,  forms  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  228. 

Fish,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  229. 

Flamboyant  Gothic,  i.  278,  ii.  225. 

Flattery,  common  in  Eenaissance  times,  iii.  64. 

Flowers,  representation  of,  how  desirable,  i.  340;  how  repre- 
sented in  mosaic,  iii.  179. 

Fluting  of  columns,  a mistake,  i.  301. 

Foils,  deflnition  of,  ii.  221. 

Foliage,  how  carved  in  declining  periods,  iii.  8,  17.  See  ^^Vege- 
tation. ” 

Foliation  deflned,  ii.  219;  essential  to  Gothic  architecture,  ii. 

222. 

Folly,  how  symbolized,  ii.  325,  348. 

Form  of  Gothic,  defined,  ii.  209. 

Fortitude,  how  symbolized,  ii.  337. 

Fountains,  symbolic  representations  of,  i.  427. 

French  architecture,  compared  with  Italian,  li.  226. 

Frivolity,  how  exhibited  in  Grotesque  art,  lii.  143. 

Fruit,  its  use  in  ornamentation,  i.  232. 

Gr 

Gable,  general  structure  of,  i.  124;  essential  to  Gothic,  ii.  210, 
217. 


III.  TOPICAL  IKDEX. 


2T? 


Gardens,  Italian^  iii.  136. 

Generalization,  abuses  of,  iii.  176. 

Geology  of  Lombardy,  ii.  5. 

Glass,  its  capacities  in  architecture,  i.  409;  manufacture  of,  ii. 
166;  true  principles  of  working  in,  ii.  168,  395. 

Gluttony,  how  symbolized,  ii.  343. 

Goldsmiths’  work,  a high  form  of  art,  ii.  166. 

Gondola,  management  of,  ii.  375. 

Gothic  architecture,  analysis  of,  ii.  151;  not  derived  from  vege- 
table structure,  i.  121;  convenience  of,  ii.  178;  divisions  of, 
ii.  215;  surface  and  linear,  ii.  226;  Italian  and  French,  ii. 
226;  flamboyant,  i.  278,  ii.  225;  perpendicular,  i.  192,  ii. 
223,  227;  early  English,  i.  109;  how  to  judge  of  it,  ii.  228; 
how  fitted  for  domestic  purposes,  ii.  269,  iii.  195;  how  first 
corrupted,  iii.  3;  how  to  be  at  present  built,  iii.  196;  early 
Venetian,  ii.  248 ; ecclesiastical  Venetian,  i.  21;  central 
Venetian,  ii.  231;  how  adorned  by  color  in  Venice,  iii.  23. 

Government  of  Venice,  i.  2,  ii.  366. 

Grammar,  results  of  too  great  study  of  it,  iii.  55,  106. 

Greek  architecture,  general  character  of,  i.  240,  ii.  215,  iii.  159. 

Grief.  See  Sorrow.” 

Griffins,  Lombardic,  i.  292,  387. 

Grotesque,  analysis  of,  iii.  132;  in  changes  of  form,  i.  317;  in 
Venetian  painting,  iii.  162;  symbolical,  iii.  155;  its  charac- 
ter in  Eenaissance  work,  iii.  113,  121,  136,  143. 

Gutters  of  roofs,  i.  151. 


H 

Heathenism,  typified  in  ornament,  i.  317.‘  See  Paganism.” 
Heaven  and  Hell,  proofs  of  their  existence  in  natural  phenomena, 
iii.  138. 

History,  how  to  be  written  and  read,  iii.  224. 

Hobbima,  iii.  184. 

Honesty,  how  symbolized,  ii.  349. 

Hope,  how  symbolized,  ii.  341. 

Horseshoe  arches,  i.  129,  ii.  249,  250. 

Humanity,  spiritual  nature  of,  i.  41;  divisions  of,  with  respect  to 
art,  i.  394. 

Humility,  how  symbolized,  ii.  339. 


278 


111.  TOPICAL  IKDLX. 


I ’ 

Idleness,  how  symbolized,  ii.  345. 

Idolatry,  proper  sense  of  the  term,  ii.  388;  is  no  encourager  of  " 
art,  ii.  110.  See  Popery.’’ 

Imagination,  its  relation  to  art,  iii.  182. 

Imitation  of  precious  stones,  &c.,  how  reprehensible,  iii.  26,  30. 
Imposts^,  continuous,  i.  120. 

Infidelity,  how  symbolized,  ii.  335;  an  element  of  the  Kenais- 
sance  spirit,  iii.  100. 

Injustice,  how  symbolized,  ii.  349. 

Inlaid  ornamentation,!.  369;  perfection  of,  in  early  Renaissance, 
iii.  26. 

Inscriptions  at  Murano,  ii.  47,  54;  use  of,  in  early  times,  ii.  111.  ' • 
Insects,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  230. 

Inspiration,  how  opposed  to  art,  iii.  151, 171. 

Instinct,  its  dignity,  iii.  171. 

Intellect,  how  variable  in  dignity,  iii.  173. 

Involution,  delightfulness  of,  in  ornament,  ii.  136. 

Iron,  its  use  in  architecture,  i.  184,  410. 

Italians,  modern  character  of,  iii.  209. 

Italy,  how  ravaged  by  recent  war,  iii.  209.  ‘ 

t 

J I 

Jambs,  Gothic,  iii.  137. 

Jesting,  evils  of,  iii.  129.  J 

Jesuits,  their  restricted  power  in  Venice,  i.  366.  ‘ 

Jewels,  their  cutting,  a bad  employment,  ii.  166.  ^ 

Judgments,  instinctive;  i.  399.  | 

Job,  book  of,  its  purpose,  iii.  53.  i 

'Keystones,  how  mismanaged  in  Renaissance  work.  See  Venetian 
Index,  under  head  ^^Libreria.” 

Knowledge,  its  evil  consequences,  iii.  40;  how  to  be  received,  iin 
50,  &c.  See  Education.” 

L 

Labor,  manual,  ornamental  value  of,  i.  407;  evils  of  its  division, 

- 

ii.  165;  is  not  a degradation,  ii.  168.  m 


Ill,  TOPICxVL  INDEX. 


27H 


Labyrinth,  in  Venetian  streets,  its  clue,  ii.  254. 

Lagoons,  Venetian,  nature  of,  ii.  7,  8. 

Landscape,  lower  schools  of,  i.  24;  Venetian,  ii.  149;  modern  loye 
of,  ii.  175,  iii.  123. 

Laws  of  right  in  architecture,  i.  32;  laws  in  general,  how  per- 
missibly violated,  i.  255,  ii.  210;  their  position  with  respect 
! to  art,  iii.  96;  and  to  religion,  iii.  205. 

Leaves,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  232  (see  Vegetation’’) ; 

proportion  of,  ii.  128. 

Liberality,  how  symbolized,  ii.  333. 

Life  in  Byzantine  architecture,  ii.  133. 

Lilies,  beautiful  proportions  of,  ii.  128  ; used  for  parapet  orna- 
ments; ii.  242;  lily  capitals,  ii.  137. 

Limitation  of  ornament,  i.  254. 

Lines,  abstract  use  of,  in  ornament,  i.  221. 

Lintel,  its  structure,  i.  124,  126. 

Lion,  on  piazzetta  shafts,  iii.  238. 

Load,  of  arches,  i.  133. 

Logic,  a contemptible  science,  iii.  105. 

Lombardic  architecture,  i.  17. 

Lotus  leaf,  its  use  in  architecture,  i.  233. 

Love,  its  power  over  human  life,  iii.  137. 

Lusts,  their  power  over  human  nature,  how  symbolized  by  Spen  - 
ser, ii.  328. 

Luxury,  how  symbolized,  ii.  342;  how  traceable  in  ornament, 
iii.  4;  of  Renaissance  schools,  iii.  61. 

M 

Madonna,  Byzantine  representations  of,  ii.  53. 

Magnitude,  vulgar  admiration  of,  iii.  64. 

Malmsey,  use  of,  in  Feast  of  the  Maries,  iii.  117. 

Marble,  its  uses,  iii.  27. 

Maries,  Feast  of  the,  iii.  117. 

Mariolatry,  ancient  and  modern,  ii.  55. 

Marriages  of  Venetians,  iii,  116. 

Masonry,  Mont-Cenisian,  i.l32;  of  walls,  i.  61;  of  arches,  i.  133. 
Materials,  invention  of  new,  how  injurious  to  art,  iii.  42. 

Misery,  how  symbolized,  ii.  347. 

Modesty,  how  symbolized,  ii.  335, 


280 


in.  TOPICAL  INDEX. 


Monotony,  its  place  in  art,  ii.  17ft 

Months,  personifications  of,  in  ancient  art,  ii,  272. 

Moroseness,  its  guilt,  iii.  130. 

Mosaics  at  Torcello,  ii.  18,  19  ^ at  St.  Mark’s,  ii.  70,  112  ,•  early 
character  of,  ii.  110,  iii.  175,  178. 

Music,  its  relation  to  color,  iii.  186. 

Mythology  of  Venetian  painters,  ii.  150  j ancient,  how  injurious 
to  the  Christian  mind,  iii.  107. 

N 

Natural  history,  how  necessary  a study,  iii.  54. 

Naturalism,  general  analysis  of  it  with  respect  to  art,  ii.  181, 
190 ; its  advance  in  Gothic  art,  iii.  6 ; not  to  be  found  in 
the  encrusted  style,  ii.  89  ; its  presence  in  the  noble  Gro- 
tesque, iii.  144. 

Nature  (in  the  sense  of  material  universe)  not  improvable  by  art, 
1.  350  ; its  relation  to  architecture,  i.  351. 

Niches,  use  of,  in  Northern  Gothic,  i.  278  ; in  Venetian,  ii.  240 ; 
in  French  and  Veronese,  ii.  227.  ’ : 

Norman  hatchet-work,  i.  297 ; zigzag,  i.  339.  i 

Novelty,  its  necessity  to  the  human  mind,  ii.  176,  ' ' 

0 i 

Oak-tree,  how  represented  in  symbolical  art,  iii.  185.  ; 

Obedience,  how  symbolized,  ii.  334.  ; 

Oligarchical  government,  its  effect  on  the  Venetians,  i.  5. 

Olive-tree,  neglect  of,  by  artists,  iii.  175  ; general  expression  of,'  i 
iii.  176,  177  ; representations  of,  in  mosaic,  iii.  178.  ^ 

Order,  uses  and  disadvantages  of,  ii.  172.  j 

Oiders,  Doric  and  Corinthian,  i.  13 ; ridiculous  divisions  of  i.  < 
157,  370  ; ii.  173,  249  ; iii.  99. 

Ornament,  material  of,  i.  211 ; the  best,  expresses  man’s  delight  " 
in  God’s  work,  i.  220  ; not  in  his  own,  i.  211 ; general  treat-  ? 
ment  of,  i.  236  ; is  necessarily  imperfect,  i.  237,  240;  di-^ 
vided  into  servile,  subordinate,  and  insubordinate,  i.  242,  ii.M 
158  ; distant  effect  of,  i.  248 ; arborescent,  i.  252  ; restrained  | 
within  limits,  i.  255;  cannot  be  overcharged  if  good,  i.  406.  M 

Oxford,  system  of  education  at,  i.  391.  1 

I 

i ■ 


III.  TOPICAL  INDEX. 


281 


P 

Paganism^  revival  of  its  power  in  modern  times,  iii.  105,  107, 

122. 

Painters,  tlieir  power  of  perception,  iii.  37  ; influence  of  society 
on,  iii.  41 ; what  they  should  know,  iii.  41 ; what  is  their 
business,  iii.  187. 

Palace,  the  Crystal,  merits  of,  i.  409. 

Palaces,  Byzantine,  ii.  118,  391 ; Gothic,  ii  231. 

Papacy.  See  ‘"'Popery.’^ 

Parapets,  i.  162,  ii.  240. 

Parthenon,  curves  of,  ii.  127. 

Patience,  .how  symbolized,  ii.  334. 

Pavements,  ii.  52. 

Peacocks,  sculpture  of,  i.  240. 

Pedestals  of  shafts,  i.  82;  and  see  Venetian  Index  under  head 
Giorgio  Maggiore.^’ 

Percej)tion  opposed  to  knowledge,  iii.  37. 

Perfection,  inordinate  desire  of,  destructive  of  art,  i.  237;  ii.  133, 
158,  169. 

Perpendicular  style,  i.  190,  253;  ii.  223,  227. 

Personiflcation,  evils  of,  ii.  322. 

Perspective,  aerial,  ridiculous  exaggerations  of,  iii.  45 ; ancient 
pride  in,  iii.  57  ; absence  of,  in  many  great  works,  see  in 
Venetian  Index  the  notice  of  Tintoret^s  picture  of  the 
Pool  of  Bethesda,  under  head  ^^Eocco.^’ 

Phariseeism  and  Liberalism,  how  opposed,  iii.  97. 

Philology,  a base  science,  iii.  54. 

Piazzetta  at  Venice,  plan  of,  ii.  283  ; shafts  of,  ii.  233. 

Pictures,  judgment  of,  how  formed,  ii.  371 ; neglect  of,  in  Venice, 
ii.  372 ; how  far  an  aid  to  religion,  ii.  104,  110. 

Picturesque,  definition  of  term,  iii.  134. 

Piers,  general  structure  of,  i.  71,  98,  118. 

Pilfifrim’s  Progress.  See  ^^Bunyan.’^ 

Pine  of  Italy,  its  effect  on  architecture,  i.  152  ; of  Alps,  effect  in 
distance,  i.  245.  See  ^^Fir.” 

Pinnacles  are  of  little  practical  service,  i.  170  ; their  effect  on  com- 
mon roofs,  i.  347- 

Piay,  its  relation  to  Grotesque  art,  iih  126. 


382 


III.  TOPICAL  I>"DEX. 


Pleasure,  its  kinds  and  true  uses,  iii,  189. 

Popery,  kow  degraded  in  contest  with  Protestantism,  i.  34,  iii, 
103  its  influence  on  art,  i.  23,  34,  35,  384,  433,  ii.  51  ; typi' 
fled  m ornament,  i.  316  ; power  of  Pope  in  Venice,  i.  363  : 
arts  used  in  support  of  Popery,  ii.  74. 

Porches,  i.  195. 

Portraiture,  power  of,  in  Venice,  iii.  164. 

Posture-making  in  Eenaissance  art,  iii.  90. 

Prayers,  ancient  and  modern,  difference  between  ii  315 
390. 

Pre-Raphaelitism,  iii.  90 ; present  position  of,  iii.  168,  174,  188. 
Pride,  how  symbolized,  ii.  343,  iii.  307  : of  knowledge,  iii.  35 
of  state,  iii.  59  ; of  system,  iii.  95.  * 

Priests,  restricted  power  of,  in  Venice,  i.  366. 

Proportions,  subtlety  of,  in  early  work,  ii.  38,  131,  137. 
Protestantism,  its  influence  on  art,  i.  33  ; typifled’in  ornament, 
i.  316  ; influence  of,  on  prosperity  of  nations,  i.  368  ; expen- 
diture in  favor  of,  i.  434  ; is  incapable  of  judging  of  art,  ii. 
lOo  , how  expressed  in  art,  ii.  305  5 its  errors  in  opposing 
Romanism,  iii.  103,  103,  104  ; its  shame  of  religious  confes-: 
sion,  ii.  378.  ; 

Prudence,  how  symbolized,  ii.  340.  ' 

Pulpits,  proper  structure  of,  ii.  33,  380.  ■ 

Purism  in  art,  its  nature  and  definition,  ii.  189.  ] 

Purity,  how  symbolized,  iii.  30. 

Q ; 

Quadrupeds,  use  of  in  ornamentation,  i.  334.  ! 

Quantity  of  ornament,  its  regulation,  i.  33.  | 

I 

R j 

Rationalism,  its  influence  on  art,  i.  33.  ; i 

Realization,  how  far  allowable  in  noble  art,  iii.  183,  186. 

Recesses,  decoration  of,  i.  378. 

Recumbent  statues,  iii.  73.  ^ 

Redundance,  an  element  of  Gothic,  ii.  306.  i 

Religion,  its  influence  on  Venetian  policy,  i.  6 ; how  far  aided! 
by  pictorial  art,  ii.  104,  109  5 contempt  of,  in  Renaissance] 
times,  iii.  133.  M 


IIIc  lOPICAL  l^s^DEX. 


283 

Renaissance  architecture,  nature  of,  iii.  33  ; early,  iii.  1 ; Byzan- 
tine, iii.  15  ; Roman,  iii.  32  ; Grotesque,  iii.  112 ; inconsis- 
tencies of,  iii.  42,  etc. 

Reptiles,  how  used  in  ornamentation,  i.  230. 

Resistance,  line  of,  in  arches,  i.  126. 

Restraint,  ornamental,  value  of,  i.  255. 

Reverence,  how  ennobling  to  humanity,  ii.  163. 

Rhetoric,  a base  study,  iii.  106. 

Rigidity,  an  element  of  Gothic,  ii.  203. 

Rivers,  symbolical  representation  of,  i.  419,  420. 

Rocks,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  224  ; organization  of,  i.  246; 
curvatures  of,  i.  58,  224. 

Roll-mouldings,  decoration  of,  i.  276. 

Romance,  modern  errors  of,  ii.  4 ; how  connected  with  dress,  iii. 
192. 

Romanesque  style,  i.  15,19,  145;  ii.  215.  See  Byzantine,”  and 
‘^Renaissance.” 

Romanism.  See  “Popery.” 

Roofs,  analysis  of,  i.  46, 148;  ii.  212,  216  ; domed,  i.  149  ; Swiss, 
i.  149,  345  ; steepness  of,  conducive  to  Gothic  character,  i. 
151,  ii.  209  ; decoration  of,  i.  343. 

Rustication,  is  ugly  and  foolish,  i.  65  ; natural  objects  of  which 
it  produces  a resemblance,  i.  296. 

S 

Salvia,  its  leaf  applied  to  architecture,  i.  287,  306. 

Sarcophagi,  Renaissance  treatment  of,  iii.  90  ; ancient,  iii.  69, 
93. 

Satellitic  shafts,  i.  95. 

Satire  in  Grotesque  art,  iii.  126,  145. 

Savageness,  the  firsi  element  of  Gothic,  ii.  155  ; in  Grotesque 
art,  iii.  159. 

Science  opposed  to  art,  iii.  36. 

Sculpture,  proper  treatment  of,  i.  216,  &c. 

Sea,  symbolical  representations  of,  i.  352,  421 ; natural  waves  of, 
1.  351. 

Sensualism  in  art,  its  nature  and  definition,  ii.  189 ; how  re- 
deemed by  color,  ii.  145. 

Sera})cum  at  Memphis,  cusps  of,  li.  220. 


284 


III.  TOPICAL  IJ^DEX. 


Sermons,  proper  manner  of  regarding  them,  ii.  22  ; mode  of 
their  delivery  in  Scotch  church,  ii.  381. 

Serrar  del  Consiglio,  ii.  291. 

Shafts,  analysis  of,  i.  84  ; vaulting  shafts,  i.  145  ; ornamentation 
of,  i.  300  ; twisted,  by  what  laws  regulated,  i.  303  ; strength 
of,  i.  402 ; laws  by  which  they  are  regulated  in  encrusted 
style,  ii.  82. 

Shields,  use  of,  on  tombs,  ii.  224,  hi.  87. 

Shipping,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  215. 

Shops  in  Venice,  ii.  65. 

Sight,  how  opposed  to  thought,  iii.  39. 

Simplicity  of  life  in  thirteenth  century,  ii.  263. 

Sin,  how  symbolized  in  Grotesque  art,  iii.  141. 

Slavery  of  Greeks  and  Egyptians,  ii.  158  ; of  English  workmen, 

ii.  162,  163. 

Society,  unhealthy  state  of,  in  modern  times,  ii.  163. 

Sorrow,  how  sinful,  ii.  325  ; how  symbolized,  ii.  347. 

Soul,  its  development  in  art,  iii.  173,  188  ; its  connection  with 
the  body,  i.  41,  395. 

Spandrils,  structure  of,  i.  146  ; decoration  of,  i.  297. 

Spirals,  architectural  value  of,  i.  222,  ii.  16. 

Spurs  of  bases,  i.  79. 

Staircases,  i.  208  ; of  Gothic  palaces,  ii.  280. 

Stucco,  when  admissible,  iii.  21. 

Subordination  of  ornament,  i.  240. 

Superimposition  of  buildings,  i.  200  ; ii.  386. 

Surface-Gothic,  explanation  of  term,  ii.  225,  227. 

Symbolism,  i.  417  ; how  opposed  to  personification,  li.  322. 
System,  pride  of,  how  hurtful,  iii.  95,  99. 

T 

Temperance,  how  symbolized,  ii.  338  ; temperance  in  color  and 
curvature,  iii.  420. 

Theology,  opposed  to  religion,  iii.  216  ; of  Spencer,  iii.  205. 
Thirteenth  century,  its  high  position  with  respect  to  art,  ii.  263. 
Thought,  opposed  to  sight,  iii.  39. 

Tombs  at  Verona,  i.  142,  412  ; at  Venice,  ii.  69  ; early  Christian, 

iii.  67  ; Gothic,  iii.  71  ; Eenaissance  treatment  of,  iii.  84. 
Towers,  proper  character  of,  i.  204  ; of  St.  Mark’s,  i.  207. 


III.  TOPICAL  IKDEX. 


285 


Traceries,  structure  of,  i.  184,  185  ; flamboyant,  i.  189 ; stump, 
i.  189  ; English  perpendicular,  i.  190,  ii.  222 ; general  char- 
acter of,  ii.  220  ; strength  of,  in  A^enetian  Gothic,  ii.  234, 
iii.  253  ; general  forms  of  tracery  bars,  hi.  250. 

Treason,  how  detested  by  Dante,  ii.  327. 

Trees,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  231. 

Trefoil,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  ii.  42. 

Triangles,  used  for  ornaments  at  Murano,  ii.  43. 

Tribune  at  Torcello,  ii.  24. 

Triglyphs,  ugliness  of,  i.  43. 

Trunkmakers,  their  share  in  recovery  of  Brides  of  Venice,  iii. 
117,  118. 

Truth,  relation  of,  to  religion,  in  Spenser’s  Faerie  Queen,”  iii. 
205;  typified  by  stones,  iii.  31. 

Tympanum,  decoration  of,  i.  299. 

IT 

Unity  of  Venetian  nobility,  i.  10. 

V 

Vain  glory,  speedy  punishment  of,  in.  122. 

A^anity,  how  symbolized,  ii.  346. 

A^ariety  in  ornamental  design,  importance  of,  ii.  43,  133,  142, 
172. 

Vegetation,  use  of,  in  ornamentation,  i.  232  ; peculiar  meaning 
of,  in  Gothic,  ii.  199  ; how  connected  with  cusps,  ii.  219. 

A^eil  (wall  veil),  construction  of,  i.  58  ; decoration  of,  i.  294. 

Vine,  Lombardic  sculpture  of,  i.  375  ; at  Torcello,  ii.  15  ; use 
of,  in  ornamentation,  ii.  141  ; in  symbolism,  ii.  143  ; sculp- 
ture of,  on  Ducal  Palace,  ii.  308. 

Virtues,  how  symbolized  in  sepulchral  monuments,  iii.  82,  86  ; 
systems  of,  in  Pagan  and  Christian  philosophy,  ii.  312  ; 
cardinal,  ii.  317,  318,  320 ; of  architecture,  i.  36,  44. 

A'oussoirs  defined,  i.  125  ; contest  between  them  and  architraves, 
i.  336. 

W 

Walls,  general  analysis  of  their  structure,  i.  48  ; bases  of,  i. 
52,  53  ; cornices  of,  i.  63  ; rustication  of,  i.  61,  338  ; decora^ 
tion  of,  i.  294 ; courses  in,  i.  61,  295. 


286 


III.  TOPICAL  INDEX. 


Water,  its  use  in  ornamentation,  i.  226  ; ancient  representations 
of,  i.  417. 

Weaving,  importance  of  associations  connected  with,  ii.  136. 
Wells,  old  Venetian,  ii.  279. 

AVindows,  general  forms  of,  i.  179  ; Arabian,  i.  180,  ii.  135  ; 
square-headed,  ii.  211,  269;  development  of,  in  Venice,  ii. 
235  ; orders  of,  in  Venice,  ii.  248  ; advisable  form  of,  in 
modern  buildings,  ii.  269. 

AVinds,  how  symbolized  at  Venice,  ii.  367. 

AVooden  architecture,  i.  381. 

AVomanhood,  virtues  of,  as  given  by  Spenser,  ii.  326. 

Z 

Zigzag,  hTorman,  i.  339. 


IT. 


YEN^ETIAK  liTDEX. 


I HAVE  endeavored  to  make  the  following  index  as  useful  as 
possible  to  the  traveller,  by  indicating  only  the  objects  which  are 
really  worth  his  study.  A traveller’s  interest,  stimulated  as  it 
is  into  strange  vigor  by  the  freshness  of  every  impression,  and 
deepened  by  the  sacredness  of  the  charm  of  association  which 
long  familiarity  with  any  scene  too  fatally  wears  away,*  is  too 
precious  a thing  to  be  heedlessly  wasted  ; and  as  it  is  physically 
impossible  to  see  and  to  understand  more  than  a certain  quantity 
of  art  in  a given  time,  the  attention  bestowed  on  second-rate 
works,  in  such  a city  as  Venice,  is  not  merely  lost,  but  actually 
harmful, — deadening  the  interest  and  confusing  the  memory 
with  respect  to  those  which  it  is  a duty  to  enjoy,  and  a disgrace 
to  forget.  The  reader  need  not  fear  being  misled  by  any  omis- 
sions; for  I have  conscientiously  pointed  out  every  characteristic 
example,  even  of  the  styles  which  I dislike,  and  have  referred  to 
Lazari  in  all  instances  in  which  my  own  information  failed:  but 
if  he  is  in  any  wise  willing  to  trust  me,  I should  recommend 
him  to  devote  his  principal  attention,  if  he  is  fond  of  paintings, 

* Am  I in  Italy?  Is  this  the  Mincius? 

Are  those  the  distant  turrets  of  Verona  ? 

And  shall  I sup  where  Juliet  at  the  Masque 
Saw  her  loved  Montague,  and  now  sleeps  by  him? 

Such  questions  hourly  do  I ask  myself ; 

And  not  a stone  in  a crossway  inscribed 
' To  Mantua,  ’ ‘ To  Ferrara, ' but  excites 
Surprise,  and  doubt,  and  self-congratulation.” 

Alas,  after  a few  short  months,  spent  even  in  the  scenes  dearest  to  his- 
tory, we  can  feel  thus  no  more. 


288 


VEKETIAK  IXDEX. 


to  the  works  of  Tintoret,  Paul  Veronese,  and  John  Bellini ; not 
of  course  neglecting  Titian,  yet  remembering  that  Titian  can  be 
well  and  thoroughly  studied  in  almost  any  great  European 
gallery,  while  Tintoret  and  Bellini  can  be  judged  of  only  in 
Venice,  and  Paul  Veronese,  though  gloriously  represented  by 
the  two  great  pictures  in  the  Louvre,  and  many  others  through- 
out Europe,  is  yet  not  to  be  fully  estimated  until  he  is  seen  at 
play  among  the  fantastic  chequers  of  the  Venetian  ceilings. 

I have  supplied  somewhat  copious  notices  of  the  pictures  of 
Tintoret,  because  they  are  much  injured,  difficult  to  read,  and 
entirely  neglected  by  other  writers  on  art.  I cannot  express  the 
astonishment  and  indignation  I felt  on  finding,  in  Kugler’s 
handbook,  a paltry  cenacolo,  painted  probably  in  a couple  of 
hours  for  a couple  of  zecchins,  for  the  monks  of  St.  Trovaso, 
quoted  as  characteristic  of  this  master;  just  as  foolish  readers 
quote  separate  stanzas  of  Peter  Bell  or  the  Idiot  Boy,  as  charac- 
teristic of  Wordsworth.  Finally,  the  reader  is  requested  to 
observe,  that  the  dates  assigned  to  the  various  buildings  named 
in  the  following  index,  are  almost  without  exception  conjectural ; 
that  is  to  say,  founded  exclusively  on  the  internal  evidence  of 
which  a portion  has  been  given  in  the  Final  Appendix.  It  is 
likely,  therefore,  that  here  and  there,  in  particular  instances, 
further  inquiry  may  prove  me  to  have  been  deceived  ; but  such 
occasional  errors  are  not  of  the  smallest  importance  with  respect 
to  the  general  conclusions  of  the  preceding  pages,  which  Avill  be 
found  to  rest  on  too  broad  a basis  to  be  disturbed. 


A 

Accademia  delle  Belle  Akti.  Notice  above  the  door  the 
two  bas-reliefs  of  St.  Leonard  and  St.  Christopher,  chiefly 
remarkable  for  their  rude  cutting  at  so  late  a date  as  1377  ; 
but  the  niches  under  which  they  stand  are  unusual  in  their 
bent  gables,  and  in  little  crosses  within  circles  which  fill  their 
cusps.  The  traveller  is  generally  too  much  struck  by  Titian’s 
great  picture  of  the  Assumption,”  to  be  able  to  pay  proper 
attention  to  the  other  works  in  this  gallery.  Let  him,  how- 
ever, ask  himself  candidly,  how  much  of  his  admiration  is 


ACC  A t) TIM  r A — AKTOKtKO. 


m 


dependent  merely  upon  tlie  picture  being  larger  than  any  other 
in  the  room,  and  having  bright  masses  of  red  and  blue  in  it : 
let  him  be  assured  that  the  picture  is  in  reality  not  one  whit 
the  better  for  being  either  large,  or  gaudy  in  color ; and  he 
will  then  be  better  disposed  to  give  the  pains  necessary  to  dis- 
cover the  merit  of  the  more  profound  and  solemn  works  of 
Bellini  and  Tintoret.  One  of  the  most  wonderful  works  in 
the  whole  gallery  is  Tintoret’s  Death  of  Abel,”  on  the  left  of 
the  Assumption  the  Adam  and  Eve,”  on  the  right  of  it, 
is  hardly  inferior  ; and  both  are  more  characteristic  examples 
of  the  master,  and  in  many  respects  better  pictures,  than  the 
much  vaunted  Miracle  of  St.  Mark.”  All  the  works  of 
Bellini  in  this  room  are  of  great  beauty  and  interest.  In  the 
great  room,  that  which  contains  Titian’s  ^^Presentation  of  the 
Virgin,”  the  traveller  should  examine  carefully  all  the  pictures 
by  Vittor  Carpaccio  and  Gentile  Bellini,  which  represent 
scenes  in  ancient  Venice.;  they  are  full  of  interesting  archi- 
tecture and  costume.  Marco  Basaiti’s  Agony  in  the  Gar- 
den” is  a lovely  example  of  the  religious  school.  The  Tin- 
.torets  in  this  room  are  all  second  rate,  but  most  of  the 
Veronese  are  good,  and  the  large  ones  are  magnificent. 

Aliga.  See  Giorgio. 

A.LYISE,  Church  of  St.  I have  never  been  in  this  church,  but 
Lazari  dates  its  interior,  with  decision,  as  of  the  year  1388, 
and  it  may  be  worth  a glance,  if  the  traveller  has  time. 

Andrea,  Church  of  St.  Well  worth  visiting  for  the  sake  of 
the  peculiarly  sweet  and  melancholy  effect  of  its  little  grass- 
grown  campo,  opening  to  the  lagoon  and  the  Alps.  The 
sculpture  over  the  door,  St.  Peter  walking  on  the  W^ater,” 
is  a quaint  piece  of  Renaissance  work.  Note  the  distant 
rocky  landscape,  and  the  oar  of  the  existing  gondola  floating 
by  St.  Andrew’s  boat.  The  church  is  of  the  later  Gothic 
period,  much  defaced,  but  still  picturesque.  The  lateral  win- 
dows are  bluntly  trefoiled,  and  good  of  their  time. 

Angeli,  Church  Delgli,  at  Murano.  The  sculpture  of  the 
^^Annunciation”  over  the  entrance-gate  is  graceful.  In  ex- 
ploring Murano,  it  is  worth  while  to  row  up  the  great  canal 
thus  far  for  the  sake  of  the  opening  to  the  lagoon. 

Antonino,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 


290 


VEKETIAK  IKDEX. 


Apollinare,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Apostoli,  Church  of  the.  The  exterior  i&  nothing.  There 
is  said  to  be  a picture  by  Veronese  in  the  interior,  ^‘The 
Fall  of  the  Manna.”  I have  not  seen  it ; but,  if  it  be 
of  importance,  the  traveller  should  compare  it  carefully  with 
Tintoret’s,  in  the  Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  and  San  Giorgio  Mag- 
giore. 

Apostoli,  Palace  at,  II.  253,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  near  the 
Rialto,  opposite  the  fruit-market.  A most  important  transi- 
tional palace.  Its  sculpture  in  the  first  story  is  peculiarly  rich 
and  curious  ; I think  Venetian,  in  imitation  of  Byzantine. 
The  sea  story  and  first  floor  are  of  the  first  half  of  the  thir- 
teenth century,  the  rest  modern.  Observe  that  only  one  wing 
of  the  sea  story  is  left,  the  other  half  having  been  modern- 
ized. The  traveller  should  land  to  look  at  the  capital  drawn 
in  Plate  II.  of  Vol.  III.  fig.  7. 

Arsenal.  Its  gateway  is  a curiously  picturesque  example  of 
Renaissance  workmanship,  admirably  sharp  and  expressive  in 
its  ornamental  sculpture  ; it  is  in  many  parts  like  some  of 
the  best  Byzantine  work.  The  Greek  lions  in  front  of  it 
appear  to  me  to  deserve  more  praise  than  they  have  received  ; 
though  they  are  awkwardly  balanced  between  conventional  and 
imitative  representation,  having  neither  the  severity  proper  to 
the  one,  nor  the, veracity  necessary  for  the  other. 

B 

Badger,  Palazzo,  in  the  Campo  San  Giovanni  in  Bragola.  A 
magnificent  example  of  the  fourteenth  century  Gothic,  circa 
1310-1320,  anterior  to  the  Ducal  Palace,  and  showing  beautiful 
ranges  of  the  fifth  order  window,  with  fragments  of  the  origi- 
nal balconies,  and  the  usual  lateral  window  larger  than  any  of 

■ the  rest.  In  the  centre  of  its  arcade  on  the  first  floor  is  the 
inlaid  ornament  drawn  in  Plate  VIII.  Vol.  I.  The  fresco 
painting  on  the  walls  is  of  later  date  ; and  I believe  the  heads 
which  form  the  finials  have  been  inserted  afterwards  also,  the 
original  windows  having  been  pure  fifth  order. 

The  building  is  now  a ruin,  inhabited  by  the  lowest  orders  ; 
the  first  floor,  when  I was  last  in  Venice,  by  a laundress. 

Baffo,  Palazzo,  in  the  Campo  St.  Maurizio.  The  commonest 


APOLLIKAliE— BEMBO. 


201 

late  Renaissance.  A few  olive  leaves  and  vestiges  of  two 
figures  still  remain  upon  it,  of  the  frescoes  by  Paul  Veronese, 
with  which  it  was  once  adorned. 

Balbi,  Palazzo,  in  Volta  di  Canal.  Of  no  importance. 

Barbaiugo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  next  the  Casa  Pisani. 
I-ate  Renaissance  ; noticeable  only  as  a house  in  which  some  of 
tiie  best  pictures  of  Titian  were  allowed  to  be  ruined  by  damp, 
and  out  of  which  they  were  then  sold  to  the  Emperor  of  Russia. 

Barbaro,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  next  the  Palazzo 
Cavalli.  These  two  buildings  form  the  principal  objects  in 
the  foreground  of  the  view  which  almost  every  artist  seizes 
on  his  first  traverse  of  the  Grand  Canal,  the  Church  of  the 
Salute  forming  a most  graceful  distance,  l^either  is,  how- 
ever, of  much  value,  except  in  general  effect ; but  the  Barbaro 
is  the  best,  and  the  pointed  arcade  in  its  side  wall,  seen  from 
the  narrow  canal  between  it  and  the  Cavalli,  is  good  Gothic, 
of  the  earliest  fourteenth  century  type. 

Barnaba,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Bartolomeo,  Church  of  St.  I did  not  go  to  look  at  the 
works  of  Sebastian  del  Piombo  which  it  contains,  fully  credit- 
ing M.  Lazari’s  statement,  that  they  have  been  Barbaramente 
sfigurati  da  mani  imperite,  che  pretendevano  ristaurarli.’’  Oth- 
erwise the  church  is  of  no  importance. 

Basso,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Battagia,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  imjoortance. 

Beccherie.  See  Querini. 

Bembo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  next  the  Casa  Manin.  A 
noble  Gothic  pile,  circa  1350-1380,  which,  before  it  was  painted 
by  tlie  modern  Venetians  with  the  two  most  valuable  colors  of 
Tintoret, -Bianco  e Nero,  by  being  Avhitewashed  above,  and 
turned  into  a coal  warehouse  below,  must  have  been  among  tlie 
most  noble  in  effect  on  the  whole  Grand  Canal.  It  still  forms 
a beautiful  group  with  the  Rialto,  some  large  shipping  being 
generally  anchored  at  its  quay.  Its  sea  story  and  entresol  are 
of  earlier  date,  I believe,  than  the  rest;  the  doors  of  the  former 
are  Byzantine  (see  above.  Final  Appendix,  under  head 
^‘Jambs’’)  ; and  above  the  entresol  is  a beautiful  Byzantine 
cornice,  built  into  the  wall,  and  harmonizing  well  with,  the 
Gothic  work. 


TENETIAX  IXDEX. 


92 


Bembo^  Palazzo^  in  the  Calle  Magno^  at  the  Campo  de’  due  Pozzi, 
close  to  the  Arsenal.  Noticed  by  Lazari  and  Selvatico  as  hav- 
ing a very  interesting  staircase.  It  is  early  Gothic,  circa  1330, 
but  not  a whit  more  interesting  than  many  others  of  similar 
date  and  design.  See  ^^Contarini  Porta  de  Eerro,’^  ^^Moro- 
sini,^’  Sanudo,’’  and  Minelli.” 

Bekedetto,  Campo  of  St.  Do  not  fail  to  see  the  superb, 
though  partially  ruinous.  Gothic  palace  fronting  this  little 
square.  It  is  very  late  Gothic,  just  passing  into  Kenaissance; 
unique  in  Venice,  in  masculine  character,  united  with  the  deli- 
cacy of  the  incipient  style.  Observe  especially  the  brackets 
of  the  balconies,  the  flower-work  on  the  cornices,  and  the  ara- 
besques on  the  angles  of  the  balconies  themselves. 
Bexedetto,  Chukch  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Berxaedo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  A very  noble  pile  of 
early  fifteenth  century  Gothic,  founded  on  the  Ducal  Palace. 
The  traceries  in  its  lateral  windows  are  both  rich  and  unusual. 
Berxardo,  Palazzo,  at  St.  Polo.  A glorious  palace,  on  a nar- 
row canal,  in  a part  of  Venice  now  inhabited  by  the  lower 
orders  only.  It  is  rather  late  Central  Gothic,  circa  1380-1400, 
but  of  the  finest  kind,  and  superb  in  its  effect  of  color  when  ' 
seen  from  the  side.  A capital  in  the  interior  court  is  much 
praised  by  Selvatico  and  Lazari,  because  its  ^^foglie  d’  acanto’’ 
(anything  by  the  by,  lut  acanthus),  quasi  agitate  de  vento  si 
attorcigliano  d’  intorno  alia  campana,  concetto  non  indegno 
della  ielV  epoca  grecaP^  Does  this  mean  epoca  Bisantina?” 
The  capital  is  simply  a translation  into  Gothic  sculpture  of  the 
Byzantine  ones  of  St.  Mark’s  and  the  Eondaco  de’  Turchi 
(see  Plate  VIII.  Vol.  I.  fig.  14),  and  is  far  inferior  to  either. 
But,  taken  as  a whole,  I think  that,  after  the  Ducal  Palace,  this 
is  the  noblest  in  effect  of  all  in  Venice. 

Bremta,  Banks  of  the,  I.  354.  Villas  on  the,  I.  354. 

Businello,  Casa,  II.  391. 

Byzaktixe  Palaces  generally,  II.  118. 

C 

Camerlexghi,  Palace  of  the,  beside  the  Eialto.  A graceful  ’ 
' work  of  the  early  Renaissance  (1525)  passing  into  Roman  = 
Renaissance  Its  details  are  inferior  to  most  of  the  work  of 


BEMBO — CASSAKO. 


293 


tlie  school.  The  “ Camerlenghi,”  properly  “ Camerlenghi  di 
Comune,”  were  the  three  officers  or  ministers  who  had  care  of 
the  administration  of  public  expenses. 

Cakcellaria,  II.  293. 

Canciano,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Oappello,  Palazzo,  at  St.  Aponal.  Of  no  interest.  Some  say 
that  Bianca  Cappello  fled  from  it;  but  the  tradition  seems  to 
fluctuate  between  the  various  houses  belonging  to  her  family. 

Carita,  Church  op  the.  Once  an  interesting  Gothic  church  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  lately  defaced,  and  applied  to  some  of 
the  usual  inportant  purposes  of  the  modern  Italians.  The 
effect  of  its  ancient  facade  may  partly  be  guessed  at  from  the 
pictures  of  Canaletto,  but  only  guessed  at;  Canaletto  being  less 
to  be  trusted  for  renderings  of  details,  than  the  rudest  and 
most  ignorant  painter  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

Carmini,  Church  op  the.  A most  interesting  church  of  late 
thirteenth  century  work,  but  much  altered  and  defaced.  Its 
nave,  in  which  the  early  sliafts  and  capitals  of  the  pure  trun- 
cate form  are  unaltered,  is  very  fine  in  effect;  its  lateral  porch 
is  quaint  and  beautiful,  decorated  with  Byzantine  circular 
sculptures  (of  which  the  central  one  is  given  in  Vol.  II.  Plate 
XI.  fig.  5),  and  supported  on  two  shafts  whose  capitals  are 
the  most  archaic  examples  of  the  pure  Kose  form  that  I know 
in  Venice. 

There  is  a glorious  Tintoret  over  the  first  altar  on  the  right 
in  entering;  the  “Circumcision  of  Christ.”  I do  not  know 
an  aged  head  either  more  beautiful  or  more  picturesque  than 
that  of  the  high  priest.  The  cloister  is  full  of  notable  tombs, 
nearly  all  dated;  one,  of  the  fifteenth  century,  to  the  left  on 
entering,  is  interesting  from  the  color  still  left  on  the  leaves 
and  flowers  of  its  sculptured  roses. 

Cassaho,  Church  of  St.  This  church  must  on  no  account  be 
missed,  as  it  contains  three  Tintorets,  of  which  one,  the 
“Crucifixion,”  is  among  the  finest  in  Europe.  There  is  nothing 
worth  notice  in  the  building  itself,  except  the  jamb  of  an 
ancient  door  (left  in  the  Renaissance  buildings,  facing  the 
canal),  which  has  been  given  among  the  examples  of  Byzantine 
Jambs;  and  the  traveller  may,  therefore,  devote  his  entire 
attention  to  the  three  pictures  in  the  chancel. 


294 


YEKETIAK  IlSTDEX. 


1.  The  Crucifixion.  (On  the  left  of  the  high  altar.)  It  is  ^ 
refreshing  to  find  a picture  taken  care  of^  and  in  a bright 
though  not  a good  light,  so  that  such  parts  of  it  as  are  seen  at 
all  are  seen  well.  It  is  also  in  a better  state  than  most  pictures 
in  galleries,  and  most  remarkable  for  its  new  and  strange 
treatment  of  the  subject.  It  seems  to  haye  been  painted  more 
for  the  artist’s  own  delight,  than  with  any  labored  attempt  at 
composition;  the  horizon  is  so  low  that  the  spectator  must 
fancy  himself  lying  at  full  length  on  the  grass,  or  rather  among 
the  brambles  and  luxuriant  weeds,  of  which  the  foreground  is 
entirely  composed.  Among  these,  the  seamless  robe  of  Christ 
has  fallen  at  the  foot  of  the  cross;  the  rambling  briars  and  wild 
grasses  thrown  here  and  there  over  its  folds  of  rich,  but  pale, 
crimson.  Behind  them,  and  seen  through  them,  the  heads  of 
a troop  of  Eoman  soldiers  are  raised  against  the  sky;  and, 
above  them,  their  spears  and  halberds  form  a thin  forest 
against  the  horizontal  clouds.  The  three  crosses  are  put  on 
the  extreme  right  of  the  picture,  and  its  centre  is  occupied 
by  the  executioners,  one  of  whom,  standing  on  a ladder,  re- 
ceives from  the  other  at  once  the  sponge  and  the  tablet  with 
the  letters  INEI.  The  Madonna  and  St.  John  are  on  the  ex- 
treme left,  superbly  painted,  like  all  the  rest,  but  quite  sub- 
ordinate. In  fact,  the  whole  mind  of  the  painter  seems  to 
have  been  set  upon  making  the  principals  accessary,  and  the 
accessaries  principal.  We  look  first  at  the  grass,  and  then  at 
the  scarlet  robe;  and  then  at  the  clump  of  distant  spears,  and 
then  at  the  sky,  and  last  of  all  at  the  cross.  As  a piece  of 
color,  the  picture  is  notable  for  its  extreme  modesty.  There 
is  not  a single  very  full  or  bright  tint  in  any  part,  and  yet  the 
color  is  delighted  in  throughout;  not  the  slightest  touch  os  it 
but  is  delmious.  It  is  worth  notice  also,  and  especially,  because 
this  picture  being  in  a fresh  state  we  are  sure  of  one  fact,  that, 
like  nearly  all  other  great  colorists,  Tintoret  was  afraid  of 
light  greens  in  his  vegetation.  He  often  uses  dark  blue  greens 
in  his  shadowed  trees,  but  here  where  the  grass  is  in  full  light, 
it  is  all  painted  with  various  hues  of  sober  brown,  more  espe- 
cially where  it  crosses  the  crimson  robe.  The  handling  of  the 
whole  is  in  his  noblest  manner;  and  I consider  the  picture 
generally  quite  beyond  all  price.  It  was  cleaned,  I believe, 


OASSAXO. 


295 


some  years  ago,  but  not  injured,  or  at  least  as  little  injured  as 
it  is  possible  for  a picture  to  be  wliicli  has  undergone  any 
cleaning  process  whatsoever. 

2.  The  Resurrection,  . (Over  the  high  altar.)  The  lower 
part  of  this  picture  is  entirely  concealed  by  a miniature  temple, 
about  five  feet  high,  on  the  top  of  the  altar;  certainly  an  in- 
sult little  expected  by  Tintoret,  as,  by  getting  on  steps,  and 
looking  over  the  said  temple,  one  may  see  that  the  lower  figures 
of  the  picture  are  the  most  labored.  It  is  strange  that  the 
painter  never  seemed  able  to  conceive  this  subject  with  any 
power,  and  in  the  present  work  he  is  marvellously  hampered 
by  various  types  and  conventionalities.  It  is  not  a painting  of 
the  Resurrection,  but  of  Roman  Catholic  saints,  thinhing 
about  the  Resurrection.  On  one  side  of  the  tomb  is  a bishop 
in  full  robes,  on  the  other  a female  saint,  I know  not  who; 
beneath  it,  an  angel  playing  on  an  organ,  and  a cherub  blowing 
it;  and  other  cherubs  flying  about  the  sky,  with  flowers;  the 
whole  conception  being  a mass  of  Renaissance  absurdities.  It 
is,  moreover,  heavily  painted,  over-done,  and  over-finished; 
and  the  forms  of  the  cherubs  utterly  heavy  and  vulgar.  I 
cannot  help  fancying  the  picture  has  been  restored  in  some 
way  or  another,  but  there  is  still  great  power  in  parts  of  it. 
If  it  be  a really  untouched  Tintoret,  it  is  a highly  curious  ex- 
ample of  failure  from  over-labor  on  a subject  into  which  his 
mind  was  not  thrown:  the  color  is  hot  and  harsh,  and  felt  to 
be  so  more  painfully,  from  its  opposition  to  the  grand  coolness 
and  chastity  of  the  ‘^Crucifixion.’’  The  face  of  the  angel 
playing  the  organ  is  highly  elaborated;  so,  also,  the  flying 
cherubs. 

3.  The  Descent  into  Hades,  (On  the  right-hand  side  of  the 
high  altar.)  ‘ Much  injured  and  little  to  be  regretted.  I never 
was  more  puzzled  by  any  23icture,  the  j)ainting  being  through- 
out careless,  and  in  some  jflaces  utterly  bad,  and  yet  not  like 
modern  work;  the  jorincipal  figure,  however,  of  Eve,  has  either 
been  redone,  or  is  scholar’s  work  altogether,  as,  I suspect,  most 
of  the  rest  of  the  picture.  It  looks  as  if  Tintoret  had  sketched 
it  when  he  was  ill,  left  it  to  a bad  scholar  to  work  on  with,  and 
tlien  finished  it  in  a hurry;  but  he  has  assuredly  liad  something 
to  do  with  it;  it  is  not  likely  that  anybody  else  would  have  re- 


S96 


YEKETIAis^  IKDEX. 


fused  all  aid  from  the  usual  spectral  comiDany  with  which  com-  I 
mon  painters  fill  tlie  scene.  Bronzino^  for  instance^  covers  his  1 
canvas  with  every  form  of  monster  that  his  sluggish  imagination  I 
could  coin.  Tintoret  admits  only  a somewhat  haggard  Adam,  1 
a graceful  Eve,  two  or  three  Venetians  in  court  dress,  seen  1 
amongst  the  smoke,  and  a Satan  represented  as  a handsome  1 
youth,  recognizable  only  by  the  claws  on  his  feet.  The  picture  1 
is  dark  and  spoiled,  but  I am  pretty  sure  there  are  no  demons  f 
or  spectres  in  it.  This  is  quite  in  accordance  with  the  master’s  I 
caj)rice,  but  it  considerably  diminishes  the  interest  of  a work  ^ 
in  other  ways  unsatisfactory.  There  may  once  have  been  | 
something  impressive  in  the  shooting  in  of  the  rays  at  the  top 
of  the  cavern,  as  well  as  in  the  strange  grass  that  grows  in  the  ^ 
bottom,  whose  infernal  character  is  indicated  by  its  all  being 
knotted  together;  but  so  little  of  these  parts  can  be  seen,  that  ' 
it  is  not  worth  spending  time  on  a work  certainly  unworthy  of 
the  master,  and  in  great  part  probably  never  seen  by  him.  ’ 

Cattarina,  Church  oe  St.,  said  to  contain  a chef-d^muvre  of  ■ 
Paul  Veronese,  the  Marriage  of  St.  Catherine.”  I have  not  . 
seen  it. 

Cavalli,  Palazzo,  opposite  the  Academy  of  Arts.  An  impos- 
ing pile,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  of  Renaissance  Gothic,  but  of 
little  merit  in  the  details;  and  the  effect  of  its  traceries  has 
been  of  late  destroyed  by  the  fittings  of  modern  external  blinds. 

Its  balconies  are  good,  of  the  later  Gothic  type.  See  Bar- 

BARO.” 

Cavalli,  Palazzo,  next  the  Casa  Grimani  (or  Post-Office),  but 
on  the  other  side  of  the  narrow  canal.  Good  Gothic,  founded 
on  the  Ducal  Palace,  circa  1380.  The  capitals  of  the  first 
story  are  remarkably  rich  in  the  deep  fillets  at  the  necks.  The 
crests,  heads  of  sea-horses,  inserted  between  the  windows,  ap- 
pear to  be  later,  but  are  very  fine  of  their  kind. 

CicoGXA,  Palazzo,  at  San  Sebastiano,  II.  265.  t; 

Clemexte,  Church  of  St.  On  an  island  to  the  south  of 
Venice,  from  which  the  view  of  the  city  is  peculiarly  beautiful.  1 
See ScALZi.”  :i 

CoNTARixi  Porta  di  Ferro,  Palazzo,  near  the  Church  of  St.  I 
John  and  Paul,  so  called  from  the  beautiful  ironwork  on  a 3 
door,  which  was  some  time  ago  taken  down  by  the  proprietor  1 


CASSAKO — CORNER  DELLA  CA  GRANDE. 


2dl 


and  sold.  Mr.  Eawdon  Brown  rescued  some  of  the  ornaments 
from  the  hands  of  the  blacksmith,  who  had  bought  them  for 
old  iron.  The  head  of  the  door  is  a very  interesting  stone 
arch  of  the  early  thirteenth  century,  already  drawn  in  my 
folio  work.  In  the  interior  court  is  a beautiful  remnant  of 
staircase,  with  a piece  of  balcony  at  the  top,  circa  1350,  and 
one  of  the  most  richly  and  carefully  wrought  in  Venice.  The 
palace,  judging  by  these  remnants  (all  that  are  now  left  of  it, 
except  a single  traceried  window  of  the  same  date  at  the  turn 
of  the  stair),  must  once  have  been  among  the  most  magnificent 
in  Venice. 

CoNTARiNi  (delle  Figure),  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal, 
III.  17. 

CoNTARiNi  DAI  ScRiGNi,  Palazzo,  Oil  the  Grand  Canal.  A 
Gothic  building,  founded  on  the  Ducal  Palace.  Two  Kenais- 
sance  statues  in  niches  at  the  sides  give  it  its  name. 

CONTARINI  Pasan,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  II.  244. 
The  richest  work  of  the  fifteenth  century  domestic  Gothic  in 
Venice,  but  notable  more  for  richness  than  excellence  of  design. 
In  one  respect,  however,  it  deserves  to  be  regarded  with  atten- 
tion, as  showing  how  much  beauty  and  dignity  may  be 
bestowed  on  a very  small  and  unimportant  dwelling-house  by 
Gothic  sculpture.  Foolish  criticisms  upon  it  have  appeared 
in  English  accounts  of  foreign  buildings,  objecting  to  it  on  the 
ground  of  its  being  ill-proportioned;”  the  simple  fact  being, 
that  there  was  no  room  in  this  part  of  the  canal  for  a wider 
house,  and  that  its  builder  made  its  rooms  as  comfortable  as 
he  could,  and  its  windows  and  balconies  of  a convenient  size 
for  those  who  were  to  see  through  them,  and  stand  on  them, 
and  left  the  ^^proportions”  outside  to  take  care  of  themselves; 
which,  indeed,  they  have  very  sufficiently  done;  for  though 
the  house  thus  honestly  confesses  its  diminutiveness,  it  is 
nevertheless  one  of  the  principal  ornaments  of  the  very  noblest 
reach  of  the  Grand  Canal,  and  would  be  nearly  as  great  a loss, 
if  it  were  destroyed,  as  the  Church  of  La  Salute  itself. 

{ /ONTARINI,  Palazzo,  at  St.  Luca.  Of  no  importance. 

Corner  della  Ca’  grande,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal. 
One  of  the  worst  and  coldest  buildings  of  the  central  Renais- 
sance. It  is  on  a grand  scale,  and  is  a conspicuous  object. 


298 


YEKETIAlSr  INDEX. 


rising  over  the  roofs  of  the  neighboring  houses  in  the  various 
aspects  of  the  entrance  of  the  Grand  Canal,  and  in  the  general 
view  of  Venice  from  San  Clemente. 

Cohner  della  Eegina,  Palazzo.  A late  Kenaissance  building 
of  no  merit  or  interest. 

Corner  Mocenigo,  Palazzo,  at  St.  Polo.  Of  no  interest. 

Corner  Spinellt,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  A graceful 
and  interesting  example  of  the  early  Kenaissance,  remarkable 
for  its  pretty  circular  balconies. 

Corner,  Raccolta.  I must  refer  the  reader  to  M.  Lazari’s 
Guide  for  an  account  of  this  collection,  which,  however,  ought 
only  to  be  visited  if  the  traveller  is  not  pressed  for  time. 

D 

Dandolo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Between  the  Casa 
Loredan  and  Casa  Bembo  is  a range  of  modern  buildings, 
some  of  which  occujiy,  I believe,  the  site  of  the  palace  once 
inliabited  by  the  Doge  Henry  Dandolo.  Fragments  of  early 
architecture  of  the  Byzantine  school  may  still  be  traced  in 
many  places  among  their  foundations,  and  two  doors  in  the 
foundation  of  the  Casa  Bembo  itself  belong  to  the  same  group. 
Tliere  is  only  one  existing  palace,  however,  of  any  value,  on 
this  spot,  a very  small  but  rich  Gothic  one  of  about  1300,  with 
two  groups  of  fourth  order  windows  in  its  second  and  third 
stories,  and  some  Byzantine  circular  mouldings  built  into  it 
above.  This  is  still  reported  to  have  belonged  to  the  family 
of  Dandolo,  and  ought  to  be  carefully  preserved,  as  it  is  one 
of  the  most  interesting  and  ancient  Gothic  palaces  which  yet 
remain. 

Danieli  Albergo.  See  ISTani. 

Da  Ponte,  Palazzo.  Of  no  interest. 

Dario,  Palazzo,  I.  370;  III.  211. 

Dog  AN  A Di  Mare,  at  the  separation  of  the  Grand  Canal  from 
the  Giudecca.  A barbarous  building  of  the  time  of  the  Gro- 
tesque Renaissance  (1676),  rendered  interesting  only  by  its 
position.  The  statue  of  Fortune,  forming  the  weathercock, 
standing  on  the  world,  is  alike  characteristic  of  the  conceits  of 
the  time,  and  of  the  hopes  and  principles  of  the  last  days  of 
Venice. 


CORN^ER  PELLA  CA’  GRAKDE — PUCAL  PALACE. 


21)9 


Doi^ATO,;,  Church  of  St.,  at  Murano,  II.  31. 

Do^^a’,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  I believe  the  palace 
described  under  this  name  as  of  the  twelfth  century,  by  M. 
Lazari,  is  that  which  I have  called  the  Braided  House,  II.  132, 
392. 

D’  Oro  Casa.  A noble  pile  of  very  quaint  Gothic,  once  superb 
in  general  effect,  but  now  destroyed  by  restorations.  I saw  the 
beautiful  slabs  of  red  marble,  which  formed  the  bases  of  its 
balconies,  and  were  carved  into  noble  spiral  mouldings  of 
strange  sections,  half  a foot  deep,  dashed  to  pieces  when  I was 
last  in  Venice;  its  glorious  interior  staircase,  by  far  the  most 
interesting  Gothic  monument  of  the  kind  in  Venice,  had  been 
carried  away,  piece  by  piece,  and  sold  for  waste  marble,  two 
years  before.  Of  what  remains,  the  most  beautiful  portions 
are,  or  were,  when  I last  saw  them,  the  capitals  of  the  windows 
in  the  upper  story,  most  glorious  sculpture  of  the  fourteenth 
century.  The  fantastic  window  traceries  are,  I think,  later; 
but  the  rest  of  the  architecture  of  this  palace  is  anomalous,  and 
I cannot  venture  to  give  any  decided  opinion  respecting  it. 
Parts  of  its  mouldings  are  quite  Byzantine  in  character,  but 
look  somewhat  like  imitations. 

Ducal  Palace,  I.  29;  history  of,  II.  282,  etc.;  III.  199;  plan 
and  section  of,  II.  282,  283;  description  of,  II.  304,  etc.;  series 
of  its  capitals,  II.  332,  etc.;  spandrils  of,  I.  299,  415;  shafts 
of,  I.  413;  traceries  of,  derived  from  those  of  the  Prari,  II. 
234;  angles  of,  II.  239;  main  balcony  of,  II.  245;  base  of.  III. 
212;  Eio  Fagade  of.  III.  25;  paintings  in,  II.  372.  The  mul- 
titude of  works  by  various  masters,  which  cover  the  walls  of 
this  palace  is  so  great,  that  the  traveller  is  in  general  merely 
wearied  and  confused  by  them.  He  had  better  refuse  all  at- 
tention except  to  the  following  works: 

1.  Paradise,  by  Tintoret;  at  the  extremity  of  the  Great 
Council  chamber.  I found  it  impossible  to  count  the  number 
of  figures  in  this  picture,  of  which  the  grouping  is  so  intricate, 
that  at  the  upper  part  it  is  not  easy  to  distinguish  one  figure 
from  another;  but  I counted  150  important  figures  in  one  half 
of  it  alone;  so  that,  as  there  are  nearly  as  many  in  subordinate 
position,  the  total  number  cannot  be  under  500.  I believe  this 
is,  on  the  whole,  Tintoret’s  clief-d'ceuvre;  though  it  is  so  vast 


BOO 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


that  no  one  takes  the  trouble  to  read  it^  and  therefore  less 
wonderful  pictures  are  preferred  to  it.  I have  not  myself  been 
able  to  study  except  a few  fragments  of  it,  all  executed  in  his 
fines>t  manner;  but  it  may  assist  a hurried  observer  to  point 
out  to  him  that  the  whole  composition  is  divided  into  concen- 
tric zones,  represented  one  above  another  like  the  stories  of  a 
cupola,  round  the  figures  of  Christ  and  the  Madonna,  at  the 
central  and  highest  point:  both  these  figures  are  exceedingly 
dignified  and  beautiful.  Between  each  zone  or  belt  of  the 
nearer  figures,  the  white  distances  of  heaven  are  seen  filled 
with  fioating  spirits.  The  picture  is,  on  the  whole,  wonder- 
fully preserved,  and  the  most  precious  thing  that  Venice  pos- 
sesses. She  will  not  possess  it  long;  for  the  Venetian  acade- 
micians, finding  it  exceedingly  unlike  their  own  works,  declare 
it  to  want  harmony,  and  are  going  to  retouch  it  to  their  own 
ideas  of  perfection. 

2.  Siege  of  Zara  ; the  first  picture  on  the  right  on  entering 
the  Sala  del  Scrutinio.  It  is  a mere  battle  piece,  in  which  the 
figures,  like  the  arrows,  are  put  in  by  the  score.  There  are 
high  merits  in  the  thing,  and  so  much  invention  that  it  is 
possible  Tintoret  may  have  made  the  sketch  for  it ; but,  if  ex- 
ecuted by  him  at  all,  he  has  done  it  merely  in  the  temper  in 
which  a sign-painter  meets  the  wishes  of  an  ambitious  land- 
lord. He  seems  to  have  been  ordered  to  represent  all  the 
events  of  the  battle  at  once ; and  to  have  felt  that,  provided 
he  gave  men,  arrows,  and  ships  enough,  his  employers  would 
be  perfectly  satisfied.  The  picture  is  a vast  one,  some  thirty 
feet  by  fifteen. 

Various  other  pictures  will  be  pointed  out  by  the  custode, 
in  these  two  rooms,  as  worthy  of  attention,  but  they  are  only 
historically,  not  artistically,  interesting.  The  works  of  Paul 
Veronese  on  the  ceiling  have  been  repainted  ; and  the  rest  of 
the  pictures  on  the  walls  are  by  second-rate  men.  The  travel- 
ler must,  once  for  all,  be  warned  against  mistaking  the  works 
of  Domenico  Eobusti  (Domenico  Tintoretto),  a very  miserable 
painter,  for  those  of  his  illustrious  father,  Jacopo. 

3.  The  Doge  Grimani  hneeling  before  Faiths  by  Titian  ; in 
the  Sala  delle  quattro  Porte.  To  be  observed  with  care,  as 
one  of  tlie  most  striking  examples  of  Titian’s  want  of  feeling 


BUCAL  PALACE. 


301 


and  coarseness  of  conception.  (See  above,  Vol.  I.  p.  12.)  As 
a work  of  mere  art,  it  is,  however,  of  great  value.  The  trav- 
eller who  has  been  accustomed  to  deride  Turner’s  indistinct- 
ness of  touch,  ought  to  examine  carefully  the  mode  of  painting 
the  Venice  in  the  distance  at  the  bottom  of  this  picture. 

4.  Frescoes  on  the  Roof  of  the  Sola  delle  quattro  Porte,  by 
Tintoret.  Once  magnificent  beyond  description,  now  mere 
wrecks  (the  plaster  crumbling  away  in  large  flakes),  but  yet 
deserving  of  the  most  earnest  study. 

5.  Christ  taken  down  from  the  Cross,  by  Tintoret ; at  the 
upper  end  of  the  Sala  dei  Pregadi.  One  of  the  most  interest- 
ing mythic  pictures  of  Venice,  two  doges  being  represented  be- 
side the  body  of  Christ,  and  a most  noble  painting  ; executed, 
however,  for  distant  effect,  and  seen  best  from  the  end  of  the 
room. 

6.  Venice,  Queen  of  the  Sea,  by  Tintoret.  Central  compart- 
ment of  the  ceiling,  in  the  8ala  dei  Pregadi.  Notable  for  the 
sweep  of  its  vast  green  surges,  and  for  the  daring  character  of 
its  entire  conception,  though  it  is  wild  and  careless,  and  in 
many  respects  unworthy  of  the  master.  Note  the  way  in  which 
he  has  used  the  fantastic  forms  of  the  sea  weeds,  with  respect 
to  what  was  above  stated  (III.  158),  as  to  his  love  of  the  gro- 
tesque. 

7.  The  Doge  Loredano  in  Prayer  to  the  Virgin,  by  Tintoret; 
in  the  same  room.  Sickly  and  pale  in  color,  yet  a grand  work; 
to  be  studied,  however,  more  for  the  sake  of  seeing  what  a 
great  man  does  to  order,”  when  he  is  wearied  of  what  is  re- 
quired from  him,  than  for  its  own  merit. 

8.  St.  George  and  the  Princess.  There  are,  besides  the 

Paradise,”  only  six  pictures  in  the  Ducal  Palace,  as  far  as  I 

know,  which  Tintoret  painted  carefully,  and  those  are  all  ex- 
ceedingly fine:  the  most  finished  of  these  are  in  the  Anti-Col- 
legio;  but  those  that  are  most  majestic  and  characteristic  of 
the  master  are  two  oblong  ones,  made  to  fill  the  panels  of  the 
walls  in  the  Anti-Chiesetta;  these  two,  each,  I suppose,  about 
eight  feet  by  six,  are  in  his  most  quiet  and  noble  manner. 
There  is  excessively  little  color  in  them,  their  prevalent  tone 
l)eing  a greyish  brown  opposed  with  grey,  black,  and  a very  warm 
russet.  They  are  thinly  painted,  perfect  in  tone,  and  quite 


VENETIA^T  IKDEX. 


502  " 

untouched.  The  first  of  them  is  St.  George  and  the  Dragon/” 
the  subject  being  treated  in  a neiv  and  curious  way.  The  prin- 
cipal figure  is  the  princess,  who  sits  astride  on  the  dragon’s 
neck,  holding  him  by  a bridle  of  silken  riband;  St.  George 
stands  above  and  behind  her,  holding  his  hands  over  her  head 
as  if  to  bless  her,  or  to  keep  the  dragon  quiet  by  heavenly 
power;  and  a monk  stands  by  on  the  right,  looking  gravely 
on.  There  is  no  expression  or  life  in  the  dragon,  though  the 
white  flashes  in  its  eye  are  very  ghastly:  but  the  whole  thing 
is  entirely  typical ; and  the  princess  is  not  so  much  represented 
riding  on  the  dragon,  as  supposed  to  be  placed  by  St.  George 
in  an  attitude  of  perfect  victory  over  her  chief  enemy.  She 
has  a full  rich  dress  of  dull  red,  but  her  figure  is  somewhat 
ungraceful.  St.  George  is  in  grey  armor  and  grey  drapery, 
and  has  a beautiful  face;  his  figure  entirely  dark  against  the 
distant  sky.  There  is  a study  for  this  picture  in  the  Man- 
frini  Palace. 

9.  St,  Andreio  and  St,  Jerome,  This,  the  companion  pic- 
ture, has  even  less  color  than  its  opposite.  It  is  nearly  all 
brown  and  grey;  the  fig-leaves  and  olive-leaves  brown,  the 
faces  brown,  the  dresses  brown,  and  St.  Andrew  holding  a 
great  brown  cross.  There  is  nothing  that  can  be  called  color, 
except  the  grey  of  the  sky,  which  approaches  in  some  places  a 
little  to  blue,  and  a single  piece  of  dirty  brick-red  in  St. 
Jerome’s  dress  ; and  yet  Tintoret’s  greatness  hardly  ever  shows 
more  than  in  the  management  of  such  sober  tints.  I would 
rather  have  these  two  small  brown  pictures,  and  two  others  in 
the  Academy  perfectly  brown  also  in  their  general  tone — the 
^^Cain  and  Abel”  and  the  Adam  and  Eve,” — than  all  the 
other  small  pictures  in  Venice  put  together,  which  he  painted 
in  bright  colors,  for  altar  pieces;  but  I never  saw  two  pictures 
which  so  nearly  approached  grisailles  as  these,  and  yet  were 
delicious  pieces  of  color.  I do  not  know  if  I am  right  in  call- 
ing one  of  the  saints  St.  Andrew.  He  stands  holding  a great 
upright  wooden  cross  against  the  sky.  St.  Jerome  reclines  at 
his  feet,  against  a rock,  over  which  some  glorious  fig  leaves  and 
olive  branches  are  shooting  ; every  line  of  them  studied  with 
the  most  exquisite  care,  and  yet  cast  with  perfect  freedom. 

10.  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,  The  most  beautiful  of  the  four 


DUCAL  PALACE. 


303 


careful  pictures  by  Tiiitoret,  which  occupy  the  angles  of  the 
Anti-Collegio.  Once  one  of  the  noblest  pictures  in  the  world, 
but  now  miserably  faded,  the  sun  being  allowed  to  fall  on  it 
all  day  long.  The  design  of  the  forms  of  the  leafage  round 
the  head  of  the  Bacchus,  and  the  floating  grace  of  the  female 
figure  above,  will,  however,  always  give  interest  to  this  picture, 
unless  it  be  repainted. 

The  other  three  Tintorets  in  this  room  are  careful  and  fine, 
but  far  inferior  to  the  Bacchus  and  the  Vulcan  and  the 
Cyclops”  is  a singularly  meagre  and  vulgar  study  of  common 
models. 

11.  Europa,  by  Paul  Veronese  : in  the  same  room.  One  of 
the  very  few  pictures  which  both  possess  and  deserve  a high 
reputation. 

12.  Venice  enthroned,  by  Paul  Veronese  ; on  the  roof  of  the 
same  room.  One  of  the  grandest  pieces  of  frank  color  in  the 
Ducal  Palace. 

13.  Venice,  and  the  Doge  Sebastian  Venier ; at  the  upper 
end  of  the  Sala  del  Collegio.  An  unrivalled  Paul  Veronese, 
far  finer  even  than  the  ^^^Europa.” 

14.  Marriage  of  St,  Catherine,  by  Tintoret ; in  the  same 
room.  An  inferior  picture,  but  the  figure  of  St.  Catherine  is 
quite  exquisite.  Note  how  her  veil  falls  over  her  form,  show- 
ing the  sky  through  it,  as  an  alpine  cascade  falls  over  a marble 
rock. 

There  are  three  other  Tintorets  on  the  walls  of  this  room, 
but  all  inferior,  though  full  of  power.  Note  especially  the 
painting  of  the  lion’s  wings,  and  of  the  colored  carpet,  in  the 
one  nearest  the  throne,  the  Doge  Alvise  Mocenigo  adoring  the 
Eedeemer. 

The  roof  is  entirely  by  Paul  Veronese,  and  the  traveller  who 
really  loves  painting,  ought  to  get  leave  to  come  to  this  room 
whenever  he  chooses ; and  should  pass  the  sunny  summer 
mornings  there  again  and  again,  wandering  now  and  then  into 
the  Anti-Collegio  and  Sala  dei  Pregadi,  and  coming  back  to 
rest  under  the  wings  of  the  couched  lion  at  the  feet  of  the 

Mocenigo.”  He  will  no  otherwise  enter  so  deeply  into  the 
heart  of  Venice. 


S04 


VEKETIAK  IKDEX. 


E 

Emo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  interest. 

Erizzo,  Palazzo,  near  the  Arsenal,  II.  262. 

Ertzzo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  nearly  opposite  the  Fon= 
daco  de’  Turclii.  A Gothic  palace,  with  a single  range  of 
windows  founded  on  the  Ducal  traceries,  an^  bold  capitals. 
It  has  been  above  referred  to  in  the  notice  of  tracery  bars. 

Eufemia,  Church  of  St.  A small  and  defaced,  but  very  curious, 
early  Gothic  church  on  the  Giudecca.  'Not  worth  visiting, 
unless  the  traveller  is  seriously  interested  in  architecture. 

Europa,  Albergo,  all’.  Once  a Giustiniani  Palace.  Good 
Gothic,  circa  1400,  but  much  altered. 

Evaxgelisti,  Casa  degli,  II.  265. 

E 

Eacakon,  Palazzo  (alla  Faya).  A fair  example  of  the  fif- 
teenth century  Gothic,  founded  on  Ducal  Palace. 

Ealier,  Palazzo,  at  the  Apostoli.  Above,  II.  253. 

Eaktixo,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a John  Bellini, 
otherwise  of  no  importance. 

Earsetti,  Palazzo,  on  tlie  Grand  Canal,  II.  124,  393. 

Faya,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Felice,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a Tintoret,  which,  if 
untouched,  I should  conjecture,  from  Lazari’s  statement  of  its 
subject,  St.  Demetrius  armed,  with  one  of  the  Ghisi  family  in 
prayer,  must  be  very  fine.  Otherwise  the  church  is  of  no  im- 
portance. 

Eerro,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Fifteenth  century 
Gothic,  very  hard  and  bad. 

Flaxgixi,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  importance. 

Fondaco  de’  Turchi,  I.  328;  II.  120,  121,  236.  The  opposite 
plate,  representing  three  of  its  capitals,  has  been  several  times 
referred  to. 

Fondaco  de’  Tedeschi.  a huge  and  ugly  building  near  the 
Kialto,  rendered,  however,  peculiarly  interesting  by  remnants 
of  the  frescoes  by  Giorgione  with  which  it  was  once  covered. 
See  Vol.  II.  80,  and  III.  23. 

Formosa,  Church  of  Saxta  Maria,  III.  113,  122. 


CAPITALS  OF  FONDACO  DE’  TURCHi. 


r 


. ^'1 


• ■ N.r  ■''V.i'yN  • . - -‘  : ' V ' /y.  / > 


KMO — FKAUl,  CHUUCir  OF  THE. 


305 


Fosca^  Chukcu  of  St.  Xotable  for  its  exceedingly  picturesque 
campanile,  of  late  Gothic,  but  uninjured  by  restorations,  and 
peculiarly  Venetian  in  being  crowned  by  the  cupola  instead  of 
the  pyramid,  which  would  have  been  employed  at  the  same 
period  in  any  other  Italian  city. 

Foscari,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  The  noblest  example 
in  Venice  of  the  fifteenth  century  Gothic,  founded  on  the 
Ducal  Palace,  but  lately  restored  and  spoiled,  all  but  the  stone- 
work of  the  main  windows.  The  restoration  was  necessary, 
however:  for,  when  I was  in  Venice  in  1845,  this  palace  was  a 
foul  ruin;  its  great  hall  a mass  of  mud,  used  as  a back  recep- 
tacle of  a stone-mason's  yard;  and  its  rooms  whitewashed,  and 
scribbled  over  with  indecent  caricatures.  It  has  since  been 
partially  strengthened  and  put  in  order;  but  as  the  Venetian 
municipality  have  now  given  it  to  the  Austrians  to  be  used  as 
barracks,  it  will  probably  soon  be  reduced  to  its  former  condi- 
tion. The  lower  palaces  at  the  side  of  this  building  are  said 
by  some  to  have  belonged  to  the  younger  Foscari.  See 
Giustiniaxi.” 

Fra^s^cesco  della  Vigxa,  Church  of  St.  Base  Eenaissance, 
but  must  be  visited  in  order  to  see  the  John  Bellini  in  the 
Cappella  Santa.  The  late  sculpture,  in  the  Cappella  Giustin- 
iani,  appears  from  Lazari’s  statement  to  be  deserving  of  care- 
ful study.  This  church  is  said  also  to  contain  two  pictures  by 
Paul  Veronese. 

Frart,  Church  of  the.  Founded  in  1250,  and  continued  at 
various  subsequent  periods.  The  apse  and  adjoining  chapels 
are  the  earliest  portions,  and  their  traceries  have  been  above 
noticed  (II.  234)  as  the  origin  of  those  of  the  Ducal  Palace. 
The  best  view  of  the  apse,  which  is  a very  noble  example  of 
Italian  Gothic,  is  from  the  door  of  the  Scuola  di  San  Kocco. 
The  doors  of  the  church  are  all  later  than  an)^  other  portion  of 
it,  very  elaborate  Eenaissance  Gothic.  The  interior  is  good 
Gothic,  but  not  interesting,  except  in  its  monuments.  Of 
these,  the  following  are  noticed  in  the  text  of  this  volume: 
That  of  Duccio  degli  Alberti,  at  pages  74,  80;  of  the 
unknown  Knight,  opposite  that  of  Duccio,  III.  74;  of  Fran- 
cesco Foscari,  III.  84;  of  Giovanni  Pesaro,  91;  of  Jacopo 
Pesaro,  92. 


306 


VEKETIAK  INDEX. 


Besides  these  tombs,  the  traveller  ought  to  notice  carefully 
that  of  Pietro  Bernardo,  a first-rate  example  of  Eenaissance 
work;  nothing  can  be  more  detestable  or  mindless  in  general 
design,  or  more  beautiful  in  execution.  Examine  especially 
the  griffins,  fixed  in  admiration  of  bouquets,  at  the  bottom. 
The  fruit  and  flowers  which  arrest  the  attention  of  the  griffins 
may  well  arrest  the  traveller’s  also;  nothing  can  be  finer  of 
their  kind.  The  tomb  of  Canova,  hy  Canova,  cannot  be 
missed;  consummate  in  science,  intolerable  in  affectation,  ridi- 
culous in  conception,  null  and  void  to  the  uttermost  in  inven- 
tion and  feeling.  The  equestrian  statue  of  Paolo  Savelli  is 
spirited;  the  monument  of  the  Beato  Pacifico,  a curious  ex- 
ample of  Eenaissance  Gothic  with  wild  crockets  (all  in  terra 
cotta).  There  are  several  good  Vivarini’s  in  the  church,  but 
its  chief  pictorial  treasure  is  the  John  Bellini  in  the  sacristy, 
the  most  finished  and  delicate  example  of  the  master  in  Venice. 

G 

Geremia,  Church  oe  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Gesuati,  Church  of  the.  Of  no  importance. 

Giacomo  de  Lorio,  Church  of  St.,  a most  interesting  church, 
of  the  early  thirteenth  century,  but  grievously  restored.  Its 
capitals  have  been  already  noticed  as  characteristic  of  the 
earliest  Gothic;  and  it  is  said  to  contain  four  works  of  Paul 
Veronese,  but  I have  not  examined  them.  The  pulpit  is  ad- 
mired by  the  Italians,  but  is  utterly  worthless.  The  verd- 
antique  pillar,  in  the  south  transept,  is  a very  noble  example 
of  the  Jewel  Shaft.”  See  the  note  at  p.  83,  Vol.  II. 

Giacomo  di  Eialto,  Church  of  St.  A picturesque  little 
church,  on  the  Piazza  di  Eialto.  It  has  been  grievously  re- 
stored, but  the  pillars  and  capitals  of  its  nave  are  certainly  of 
the  eleventh  century;  those  of  its  portico  are  of  good  central 
Gothic;  and  it  will  surely  not  be  left  unvisited,  on  this  ground, 
if  on  no  other,  that  it  stands  on  the  site,  and  still  retains  the 
name,  of  the  first  church  ever  built  on  that  Eialto  which 
formed  the  nucleus  of  future  Venice,  and  became  afterwards 
the  mart  of  her  merchants. 

Giobbe,  Church  of  St.,  near  the  Cana  Eeggio.  Its  principal 
entrance  is  a very  fine  example  of  early  Eenaissance  sculp- 


FBAKl,  CHURCH  OF  THE — GIORGIO  MAGGIORE.  30? 

ture.  Note  in  it,  especially,  its  beautiful  use  of  the  flower  of 
the  convolvulus.  There  are  said  to  be  still  more  beautiful 
examples  of  the  same  period,  in  the  interior.  The  cloister, 
though  much  defaced,  is  of  the  Gothic  period,  and  worth  a 
glance. 

Giorgio  de’  Greci,  Church  of  St.  The  Greek  Church.  It 
contains  no  valuable  objects  of  art,  but  its  service  is  worth 
attending  by  those  who  have  never  seen  the  Greek  ritual. 

Giorgio  de’  Schiavoni,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a 
very  precious  series  of  paintings  by  Victor  Carpaccio.  Other- 
wise of  no  interest. 

Giorgio  m Aliga  (St.  George  in  the  seaweed).  Church  of  St. 
Unimportant  in  itself,  but  the  most  beautiful  view  of  Venice 
at  sunset  is  from  a point  at  about  two  thirds  of  the  distance 
from  the  city  to  the  island. 

Giorgio  Maggiore,  Church  of  St.  A building  which  owes 
its  interesting  effect  chiefly  to  its  isolated  position,  being  seen 
over  a great  space  of  lagoon.  The  traveller  should  especially 
notice  in  its  facade  the  manner  in  which  the  central  Eenais- 
sance  architects  (of  whose  style  this  church  is  a renowned 
example)  endeavored  to  fit  the  laws  they  had  established  to 
the  requirements  of  their  age.  Churches  were  required  with 
aisles  and  clerestories,  that  is  to  say,  with  a high  central  nave 
and  lower  wings;  and  the  question  was,  how  to  face  this  form 
with  pillars  of  one  proportion.  The  noble  Eomanesque  archi- 
tects built  story  above  story,  as  at  Pisa  and  Lucca;  but  the 
base  Palladian  architects  dared  not  do  this.  They  must  needs 
retain  some  image  of  the  Greek  temple;  but  the  Greek  temple 
was  all  of  one  height,  a low  gable  roof  being  borne  on  ranges 
of  equal  pillars.  So  the  Palladian  builders  raised  first  a Greek 
temple  with  pilasters  for  shafts;  and,  through  the  middle  of 
its  roof,  or  horizontal  beam,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  cornice 
which  externally  represented  this  beam,  they  lifted  another 
temple  on  pedestals,  adding  these  barbarous  appendages  to  the 
shafts,  which  otherwise  would  not  have  been  high  enough; 
fragments  of  the  divided  cornice  or  tie-beam  being  left  be- 
tween the  shafts,  and  the  great  door  of  the  church  thrust  in 
between  the  pedestals.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  a design 
more  gross,  more  barliarous,  more  childish  in  conception,  more 


30S 


VEKETIAK  IKDEX. 


servile  in  plagiarism,  more  insipid  in  result,  more  contemptible 
under  every  point  of  rational  regard. 

Observe,  also,  that  when  Palladio  had  got  his  pediment  at 
the  top  of  the  church,  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  it; 
he  had  no  idea  of  decorating  it  except  by  a round  hole  in  the 
middle.  (The  traveller  should  compare,  both  in  construction 
and  decoration,  the  Church  of  the  Kedentore  with  this  of  San 
Giorgio.)  Now,  a dark  penetration  is  often  a most  precious 
assistance  to  a building  dependent  upon  color  for  its  effect; 
for  a cavity  is  the  only  means  in  the  architect’s  power  of  ob- 
taining certain  and  vigorous  shadow;  and  for  this  purpose,  a 
circular  penetration,  surrounded  by  a deep  russet  marble 
moulding,  is  beautifully  used  in  the  centre  of  IJie  white  field 
on  the  side  of  the  portico  of  St.  Mark’s.  But  Palladio  had 
given  up  color,  and  pierced  his  pediment  with  a circular  cavity, 
merely  because  he  had  not  wit  enough  to  fill  it  with  sculpture. 
The  interior  of  the  church  is  like  a large  assembly  room,  and 
would  have  been  undeserving  of  a moment’s  attention,  but 
that  it  contains  some  most  precious  i^ictures,  namely: 

1.  Gathering  the  Manna,  (On  the  left  hand  of  the  high 
altar.)  One  of  Tintoret’s  most  remarkable  landscapes.  A 
brook  flowing  through  a mountainous  country,  studded  with 
thickets  and  palm  trees;  the  congregation  have  been  long  in 
the  Wilderness,  and  are  employed  in  various  manufactures 
much  more  than  in  gathering  the  manna.  One  group  is 
forging,  another  grinding  manna  in  a mill,  another  making 
shoes,  one  woman  making  a piece  of  dress,  some  washing;  the 
main  purpose  of  Tintoret  being  evidently  to  indicate  the  con- 
tinuity of  the  supply  of  heavenly  food.  Another  painter 
would  have  made  the  congregation  hurrying  to  gather  it,  and 
wondering  at  it;  Tintoret  at  once  makes  us  remember  that 
they  have  been  fed  with  it  ^^by  the  space  of  forty  years.”  It 
is  a large  picture,  full  of  interest  and  power,  but  scattered  in 
effect,  and  not  striking  except  from  its  elaborate  landscape. 

2.  The  Last  Supper,  (Opposite  the  former.)  These  two 
pictures  have  been  painted  for  their  places,  the  subjects  being 
illustrative  of  the  sacrifice  of  the  mass.  This  latter  is  remark- 
able for  its  entire  homeliness  in  the  general  treatment  of  the 
subject;  the  entertainment  being  represented  like  any  large 


GIORGIO  .>fAGG10RR. 


309 


supper  in  a second-rate  Italian  inn,  tlie  figures  being  all  com- 
paratiyely  uninteresting;  but  we  are  reminded  that  the  sub- 
ject is  a sacred  one,  not  only  by  the  strong  light  shining  from 
the  head  of  Christ,  but  because  the  smoke  of  the  lamp  which 
hangs  over  the  table  turns,  as  it  rises,  into  a multitude  of 
angels,  all  painted  in  grey,  the  color  of  the  smoke;  and  so 
writhed  and  twisted  together  that  the  eye  hardly  at  first  dis- 
tinguishes them  from  the  vapor  out  of  which  they  are  formed, 
ghosts  of  countenances  and  filmy  wings  filling  up  the  intervals 
between  the  completed  heads.  The  idea  is  highly  charac- 
teristic of  the  master.  The  picture  has  been  grievously 
injured,  but  still  shows  miracles  of  skill  in  the  expres- 
sion of  candle-light  mixed  with  twilight;  variously  reflected 
rays,  and  half  tones  of  the  dimly  lighted  ehamber,  mingled 
with  the  beams  of  the  lantern  and  those  from  the  head  of 
Christ,  flashing  along  the  metal  and  glass  upon  the  table,  and 
under  it  along  the  floor,  and  dying  away  into  the  recesses  of 
the  room. 

3.  Martyrdom  of  various  Saints.  (Altar  piece  of  the  third 
altar  in  the  South  aisle.)  A moderately  sized  picture,  and 
now  a very  disagreeable  one,  owing  to  the  violent  red  into 
which  the  color  that  formed  the  glory  of  the  angel  at  the  top 
is  changed.  It  has  been  hastily  painted,  and  only  shows  the 
artist’s  power  in  the  energy  of  the  figure  of  an  executioner 
drawing  a bow,  and  in  the  magnificent  ease  with  which  the 
other  figures  are  thrown  together  in  all  manner  of  wild  groups 
and  defiances  of  probability.  Stones  and  arrows  are  flying 
about  in  the  air  at  random. 

4.  Coronation  of  the  Virgin.  (Fourth  altar  in  the  same 
aisle.)  Painted  more  for  the  sake  of  the  portraits  at  the 
bottom,  than  of  the  Virgin  at  the  top.  A good  pieture,  but 
somewhat  tame  for  Tintoret,  and  much  injured.  The  princi- 
pal figure,  in  black,  is  still,  however,  very  fine. 

5.  Resurrection  of  Christ.  (At  the  end  of  the  north  aisle, 
in  the  chapel  beside  the  choir.)  Another  picture  painted 
chiefly  for  the  sake  of  the  included  portrafts,  and  remarkably 
cold  in  general  conception;  its  color  has,  however,  been  gay 
and  delicate,  lilac,  yellow,  and  blue  being  largely  used  in  it. 
The  flag  which  our  Saviour  bears  in  his  hand,  has  been  once 


310 


VEKETIAX  IKEEX. 


as  bright  as  the  sail  of  a Venetian  fishing-boat,  bl^t  the  colors 
are  now  all  chilled,  and  the  picture  is  rather  crude  than  bril- 
liant; a mere  wreck  of  what  it  was,  and  all  covered  with 
droppings  of  wax  at  the  bottom. 

6.  Martyrdom  of  St.  Stephen.  (Altar  piece^  in  the  north 
transept.)  The  Saint  is  in  a rich  prelate’s  dress,  looking  as  if 
he  had  just  been  saying  mass,  kneeling  in  the  foreground,  and 
perfectly  serene.  The  stones  are  flying  about  him  like  hail, 
and  the  ground  is  covered  with  them  as  thickly  as  if  it  were  a 
river  bed.  But  in  the  midst  of  them,  at  the  saint’s  right 
hand,  there  is  a book  lying,  crushed  but  open,  two  or  three 
stones  which  have  torn  one  of  its  leaves  lying  upon  it.  The 
freedom  and  ease  with  which  the  leaf  is  crumpled  is  just  as 
characteristic  of  the  master  as  any  of  the  grander  features; 
no  one  but  Tintoret  could  have  so  crushed  a leaf;  but  the 
idea  is  still  more  characteristic  of  him,  for  the  book  is  evi- 
dently meant  for  the  Mosaic  History  which  Stephen  had  just 
been  expounding,  and  its  being  crushed  by  the  stones  shows 
how  the  blind  rage  of  the  Jews  was  violating  their  own  law  in 
the  murder  of  Stephen.  In  the  upper  part  of  the  picture  are 
three  figures, — Christ,  the  Father,  and  St.  Michael.  Christ 
of  course  at  the  right  hand  of  the  Father,  as  Stephen  saw  him 
standing;  but  there  is  little  dignity  in  this  part  of  the  concep- 
tion. In  the  middle  of  the  picture,  which  is  also  the  middle 
distance,  are  three  or  four  men  throwing  stones,  with  Tin- 
toret’s  usual  vigor  of  gesture,  and  behind  them  an  immense 
and  confused  crowd;  so  that,  at  first,  we  wonder  where  St. 
Paul  is;  but  presently  we  observe  that,  in  the  front  of  this 
crowd,  and  almost  exactly  in  the  centre  of  the  picture,  there 
is  a figure  seated  on  the  ground,  very  noble  and  quiet,  and  with 
some  loose  garments  thrown  across  its  knees.  It  is  dressed 
in  vigorous  black  and  red.  The  figure  of  the  Father  in  the 
sky  above  is  dressed  in  black  and  red  also^  and  these  two 
figures  are  the  centres  of  color  to  the  whole  design.  It  is 
almost  impossible  to  praise  too  highly  the  refinement  of  con- 
ception which  withdrew  the  unconverted  St.  Paul  into  the 
distance,  so  as  entirely  to  separate  him  from  the  immediate 
interest  of  the  scene,  and  yet  marked  the  dignity  to  which  he 
was  afterward  to  be  raised,  by  investing  him  with  the  colors 


GIOKGIO  MAGGIOKK— GI0VAN:N^I  E PAOLO. 


311 


which  occurred  nowhere  else  in  the  picture  except  in  the 
dress  which  veils  the  form  of  the  Godhead.  It  is  also  to  be 
noted  as  an  interesting  example  of  the  value  which  the  painter 
put  upon  color  only;  another  composer  would  have  thought  it 
necessary  to  exalt  the  future  apostle  by  some  peculiar  dignity 
of  action  or  expression.  The  posture  of  the  figure  is  indeed 
grand,  but  inconspicuous;  Tintoret  does  not  depend  upon  it, 
and  thinks  that  the  figure  is  quite  ennobled  enough  by  being 
made  a key-note  of  color. 

It  is  also  worth  observing  how  boldly  imaginative  is  the 
treatment  which  covers  the  ground  with  piles  of  stones,  and 
yet  leaves  the  martyr  apparently  unwounded.  Another 
l)ainter  would  have  covered  him  with  blood,  and  elaborated 
the  expression  of  pain  upon  his  countenance.  Tintoret  leaves 
us  under  no  doubt  as  to  what  manner  of  death  he  is  dying;  he 
makes  the  air  hurtle  with  the  stones,  but  he  does  not  choose 
to  make  his  picture  disgusting,  or  even  })ainful.  The  face  of 
the  martyr  is  serene,  and  exulting;  and  we  leave  the  picture, 
remembering  only  how  he  fell  asleep.’’ 

Giovanellt,  Palazzo,  at  the  Ponte  di  Noale.  A fine  example 
of  fifteenth  century  Gothic,  founded  on  the  Ducal  Palace. 
Giovanni  e Paolo,  Church  of  St.*  Foundation  of.  III.  69. 
An  impressive  church,  though  none  of  its  Gothic  is  com- 
parable with  that  of  the  North,  or  Avith  that  of  Verona.  The 
Western  door  is  interesting  as  one  of  the  last  conditions  of 
Gothic  design  passing  into  Renaissance,  very  rich  and  beauti- 
ful of  its  kind,  especially  the  Avreath  of  fruit  and  floAvers 
Avhich  forms  its  principal  molding.  The  statue  of  Bartolomeo 
Colleone,  in  the  little  square  beside  the  church,  is  certainly 
one  of  the  noblest  Avorks  in  Italy.  I have  never  seen  anything 
approaching  it  in  animation,  in  vigor  of  portraiture,  or  noble- 
ness of  line.  The  reader  Avill  need  Lazari’s  Guide  in  making 
the  circuit  of  the  church,  which  is  full  of  interesting  monu- 
ments: but  I Avish  especially  to  direct  his  attention  to  tAvo 
pictures,  besides  the  celebrated  Peter  Martyr:  namely, 

* I have  always  called  this  church,  in  the  text,  simply  St.  John  and 
Paul,”  not  Sts.  John  and  Paul,  just  as  the  Venetians  say  San  Giovanni  e 
i’aolo,  and  not  Santi  G.,  r 


312 


VEKETIAN  IN’DEX. 


1.  The  Crucifixion,  by  Tintoret;  on  the  wall  of  the  left- 
hand  aisle^  just  before  turning  into  the  transept.  A picture 
fifteen  feet  long  by  eleven  or  twelve  high.  I do  not  be- 
lieve that  either  the  Miracle  of  St.  Mark/’  or  the  great 
^^Crucifixion”  in  the  Scuola  di  San  Eocco,  cost  Tintoret  more 
pains  than  this  comparatively  small  work^  which  is  now  utterly 
neglected,  covered  with  filth  and  cobwebs,  and  fearfully  in- 
jured. As  a piece  of  color,  and  light  and  shade,  it  is  alto- 
gether marvellous.  Of  all  the  fifty  figures  which  the  picture 
contains,  there  is  not  one  which  in  any  way  injures  or  con- 
tends with  another;  nay,  there  is  not  a single  fold  of  garment 
or  touch  of  the  j)encil  which  could  be  spared;  every  virtue  of 
Tintoret,  as  a painter,  is  there  in  its  highest  degree, — color  at 
once  the  most  intense  and  the  most  delicate,  the  utmost 
decision  in  the  arrangement  of  masses  of  light,  and  yet  half 
tones  and  modulations  of  endless  variety;  and  all  executed 
with  a magnificence  of  handling  which  no  words  are  ener- 
getic enough  to  describe.  ' I have  hardly  ever  seen  a pictui'"' 
in  which  there  was  so  much  decision,  and  so  little  impetuosity, 
and  in  which  so  little  was  conceded  to  haste,  to  accident,  or 
to  weakness.  It  is  too  infinite  a work  to  be  describable;  but 
among  its  minor  passages  of  extreme  beauty,  should  especially 
be  noticed  the  manner  in  which  the  accumulated  forms  of  the 
human  body,  which  fill  the  picture  from  end  to  end,  are  pre- 
vented from  being  felt  heavy,  by  the  grace  and  elasticity  of 
two  or  three  sprays  of  leafage  which  spring  from  a broken 
root  in  the  foreground,  and  rise  conspicuous  in  shadow  against 
an  interstice  filled  by  the  pale  blue,  grey,  and  golden  light  in 
which  the  distant  crowd  is  invested,  the  office  of  this  foliage 
being,  in  an  artistical  point  of  view,  correspondent  to  that  of 
the  trees  set  by  the  sculptors  of  the  Ducal  Palace  on  its 
angles.  But  they  have  a far  more  important  meanjpg  in  the 
picture  than  any  artistical  one.  If  the  spectator  will  look, 
carefully  at  the  root  which  I have  called  broken,  he  will  find  that 
in  reality,  it  is  not  broken,  but  cut;  the  other  branches  of  the 
young  tree  having  lately  been  cut  aivay.  When  we  remember 
that  one  of  the  principal  incidents  in  great  San  Eocco  Cruci- 
fixion is  the  ass  feeding  on  witliered  ])alni  leaves,  we  shall  be 
at  no  loss  to  understand  tlie  great  painter’s  purpose  jn  lifting 


GIOVANKI  ^ PAOLO. 


313 


the  branch  of  this  mutilated  olive  against  the  dim  light  of  the 
distant  sky;  while,  close  beside  it,  St.  Joseph  of  Arimathea 
drags  along  the  dust  a white  garment — observe,  the  principal 
light  of  the  picture, — stained  with  the  blood  of  that  King 
before  whom,  five  days  before,  his  crucifiers  had  strewn  their 
own  garments  in  the  way. 

2.  Oiir  Lady  until  the  Camerlenyhi.  (In  the  centre  chapel 
of  the  three  on  the  right  of  the  choir.)  A remarkable  inst- 
ance of  the  theoretical  manner  of  representing  Scriptural  facts, 
which,  at  this  time,  as  noted  in  the  second  chapter  of  this 
volume,  was  undermining  the  belief  of  the  facts  themselves. 
Three  Venetian  chamberlains  desired  to  have  their  portraits 
painted,  and  at  the  same  time  to  express  their  devotion  to  the 
Madonna;  to  that  end  they  are  painted  kneeling  before  her, 
and  in  order  to  account  for  their  all  three  being  together,  and 
to  give  a thread  or  clue  to  the  story  of  the  picture,  they  are 
represented  as  the  Three  Magi  ; but  lest  the  spectator  should 
think  it  strange  that  the  Magi  should  be  in  the  dress  of  Vene- 
tian chamberlains,  the  scene  is  marked  as  a mere  ideality,  by 
surrounding  the  person  of  the  Virgin  with  saints  who  lived 
five  hundred  years  after  her.  She  has  for  attendants  St. 
Theodore,  St.  Sebastian,  and  St.  Carlo  (query  St.  Joseph). 
One  hardly  knows  whether  most  to  regret  the  spirit  which 
was  losing  sight  of  the  verities  of  religious  history  in  imagina- 
tive abstractions,  or  to  praise  the  modesty  and  piety  which 
desired  rather  to  be  represented  as  kneeling  before  the  Virgin 
than  in  the  discharge  or  among  the  insignia  of  important 
offices  of  state. 

As  an  Adoration  of  the  Magi,’’  the  i3icture  is,  of  course, 
sufficiently  absurd  : the  St.  Sebastian  leans  back  in  the  corner 
to  be  out  of  the  way  ; the  three  Magi  kneel,  without  the 
slightest  appearance  of  emotion,  to  a Madonna  seated  in  a 
Venetian  loggia  of  the  fifteenth  century,  and  three  Venetian 
servants  behind  bear  their  offerings  in  a very  homely  sack, 
tied  up  at  the  mouth.  As  a piece  of  portraiture  and  artistical 
composition,  the  work  is  altogether  perfect,  perhaps  the  best 
piece  of  Tintoret’s  portrait-painting  in  existence.  It  is  very 
carefully  and  steadily  wrought,  and  arranged  with  consum- 
mate skill  on  a difficult  plan.  The  canvas  is  a long  oblong,  I 


314 


VEXETIAIS'  INDEX. 


think  about  eighteen  or  twenty  feet  long,  by  about  seven  high  ; 
one  might  almost  fancy  the  painter  had  been  puzzled  to  bring 
the  piece  into  use,  the  figures  being  all  tlirown  into  positions 
which  a little  diminish  their  height.  The  nearest  chamber- 
lain  is  kneeling,  the  two  behind  him  bowing  themselves 
slightly,  the  attendants  behind  bowing  lower,  the  Madonna 
sitting,  the  St.  Theodore  sitting  still  lower  on  the  steps  at  her 
feet,  and  the  St.  Sebastian  leaning  back,  so  that  all  the  lines 
of  the  picture  incline  more  or  less  from  right  to  left  as  they 
ascend.  This  slope,  which  gives  unity  to  the  detached  groups, 
is  carefully  exhibited  by  what  a mathematician  would,  call  co- 
ordinates,— the  upright  pillars  of  the  loggia  and  the  horizontal 
clouds  of  the  beautiful  sky.  The  color  is  very  quiet,  but  rich 
and  deep,  the  local  tones  being  brought  out  with  intense  force, 
and  the  cast  shadows  subdued,  the  manner  being  much  more 
that  of  Titian  than  of  Tintoret.  The  sky  appears  full  of  light, 
though  it  is  as  dark  as  the  flesh  of  the  faces  ; and  the  forms  of 
its  floating  clouds,  as  well  as  of  the  hills  over  which  they  rise, 
are  drawn  with  a deep  remembrance  of  reality.  There  are 
hundreds  of  pictures  of  Tintorct’s  more  amazing  than  this, 
but  I hardly  know  one  that  I more  love. 

The  reader  ought  especially  to  study  the  sculpture  round 
the  altar  of  the  Capella  del  Rosario,  as  an  example  of  the 
abuse  of  the  sculptor’s  art ; every  accessory  being  labored  out 
with  as  much  ingenuity  and  intense  effort  to  turn  sculpture 
into  painting,  the  grass,  trees,  and  landscape  being  as  far 
realized  as  possible,  and  in  alto-relievo.  These  bas-reliefs  are 
by  various  artists,  and  therefore  exhibit  the  folly  of  the  age, 
not  the  error  of  an  individual. 

The  following  alphabetical  list  of  the  tombs  in  this  church 
which  are  alluded  to  as  described  in  the  text,  with  references 
to  the  pages  where  they  are  mentioned,  will  save  some  trouble  : 

Mocenigo,  Tomaso,  I.  8,  26, 
III.  84. 

Morosini,  Michele,  III.  80. 
Steno,  Michele,  III.  83. 
Yendramin,  Andrea,  L 27, 
III.  88, 


Cavalli,  Jacopo,  III.  82. 
Cornaro,  Marco,  III.  11. 
Dolfln,  Giovanni,  III.  78. 
Giustiniani,  Marco,  I.  315. 
Mocenigo,  Giovanni,  III.  89. 
j\roceiiio'o.  Pietro.  III.  89. 


GIOVAXKI  E PAOLO. — GIULIAKO. 


315 


Giovanki  Grisostomo,  Church  of  St.  One  of  the  most 
important  in  Venice.  It  is  early  Eenaissance,  containing  some 
good  sculpture,  but  chiefly  notable  as  containing  a noble 
Sebastian  del  Piombo,  and  a John  Bellini,  which  a few  years 
hence,  unless  it  be  restored,”  will  be  esteemed  one  of  the 
most  precious  pictures  in  Italy,  and  among  the  most  perfect 
in  the  world.  John  Bellini  is  tlie  only  artist  who  appears  to 
me  to  have  united,  in  ecpial  and  magnificent  measures,  justness 
of  drawing,  nobleness  of  coloring,  and  perfect  manliness  of 
treatment,  with  the  purest  religious  feeling.  He  did,  as  far  as 
it  is  possible  to  do  it,  instinctively  and  unaffectedly,  what  the 
Caracci  only  pretended  to  do.  Titian  colors  better,  but  has 
not  his  pietj".  Leonardo  draws  better,  but  has  not  his  color. 
Angelico  is  more  heavenly,  but  has  not  his  manliness,  far  less 
his  powers  of  art. 

Giovanni  Elemosinario,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a 
Titian  and  a Bonifazio.  Of  no  other  interest. 

Giovanni  in  Bragola,  Church  of  St.  A Gothic  church  of 

• the  fourteenth  century,  small,  but  interesting,  and  said  to 
contain  some  precious  works  by  Cima  da  Conegliano,  and  one 
by  elohn  Bellini. 

Giovanni  Novo,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Giovanni,  S.,  Scuola  di.  A fine  example  of  the  Byzantine 
Eenaissance,  mixed  with  remnants  of  good  late  Gothic.  The 
little  exterior  cortile  is  sweet  in  feeling,  and  Lazari  praises 
highly  the  work  of  the  interior  staircase. 

Giudecca.  The  crescent-shaped  island  (or  series  of  islands), 
which  forms  the  most  northern  extremity  of  the  city  of 
Venice,  though  separated  by  a broad  channel  from^  the  main 
city.  Commonly  said  to  derive  its  name  from  the  number  of 
Jews  who  lived  upon  it  ; but  Lazari  derives  it  from  the  word 
Judicato,”  in  Venetian  dialect  Zudega,”  it  having  been  in 
old  time  adjudged”  as  a kind  of  prison  territory  to  the  more 
dangerous  and  turbulent  citizens.  It  is  now  inhabited  only  by 
the  poor,  and  covered  by  desolate  groups  of  miserable  dwell- 
ings, divided  by  stagnant  canals. 

Its  two  principal  cluirchcs,  tlic  Rodentore  and  St.  Eufemia, 
are  named  in  tlieir  alpliabetical  order. 

CGuliano,  Church  of  St.  Of  ho  importance. 


316 


YENETIAi^  II^DEX. 


Giuseppe  di  Gastello,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a 
Paul  Veronese  : otherwise  of  no  importance. 

Giustixa,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

GiusTiiiTiAKi  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  now  Albergo  all’ 
Europa.  Good  late  fourteenth  century  Gothic,  but  much 
altered. 

Giustixian-i,  Palazzo,  next  the  Casa  Foscari,  on  the  Grand 
Canal.  Lazari,  I know  not  on  what  authority,  says  that  thi'? 
palace  was  built  by  the  Giustiniani  family  before  1428.  It  is 
one  of  those  founded  directly  on  the  Ducal  Palace,  together 
with  the  Casa  Foscari  at  its  side  : and  there  could  have  been 
no  doubt  of  their  date  on  this  ground  ; but  it  would  be  inter- 
esting, after  what  we  have  seen  of  the  progress  of  the  Ducal 
Palace,  to  ascertain  the  exact  year  of  the  erection  of  any  of 
these  imitations. 

This  palace  contains  some  unusually  rich  detached  windows, 
full  of  tracery,  of  which  the  profiles  are  given  in  the  Appendix, 
under  the  title  of  tlie  Palace  of  the  Younger  Foscari,  it 
being  popularly  reported  to  have  belonged  to  the  son  of  the 
Doge. 

GiusTixiAi^-  Lohm,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  im- 
portance. 

Grassi  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canah  now  Albergo  all’  Im- 
perator  d’  Austria.  Of  no  importance. 

Gregorio,  Church  of  St.,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  An  impor- 
tant church  of  the  fourteenth  century,  now  desecrated,  but 
still  interesting.  Its  apse  is  on  the  little  canal  crossing  from 
the  Grand  Canal  to  the  Giudecca,  beside  the  Church  of  the 
Salute,  and  is  very  characteristic  of  the  rude  ecclesiastical 
Gothic  contemporary  with  the  Ducal  Palace.  The  entrance  to 
its  cloisters,  from  the  Grand  Canal,  is  somewhat  later  ; a noble 
square  door,  with  two  windows  on  each  side  of  it,  the  grandest 
examples  m Venice  of  the  late  window  of  the  fourth  order. 

The  cloister,  to  which  this  door  gives  entrance,  is  exactly 
contemporary  with  the  finest  work  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  circa 
1350.  It  is  the  loveliest  cortile  I know  in  Venice  ; its  capitals 
consummate  in  design  and  execution  ; and  the  low  wall  on 
which  they  stand  showing  remnants  of  sculpture  unique,  as 
far  as  I know,  in  sucli  application. 


GIUSEPPE  D1  GASTELLO— LiBKElUA.  VECCniA. 


bl7 


Qrimani,  Talazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  III.  32. 

d'licrc  arc  several  other  palaces  in  Venice  belonging  to  this 
family,  but  none  of  any  architectural  interest. 

% 

J 

Jesujti,  Ciruucir  of  tuf.  Tlic  basest  Ttcnaissance  ; but  Avorth 
a visit  in  order  to  examine  the  imitations  of  curtains  in  white 
marble  inlaid  with  green. 

Ic  contains  a Tintoret,  ^*The  Assumption,”  which  I have 
not  examined;  and  a Titian,  ''The  Martyrdom  of  St.  Law- 
rence,” originally,  it  seenis  to  me,  of  little  value,  and  now, 
having  been  restored,  of  none. 

L 

Labia  Palazzo,  on  the  Ganna  Reggio.  Of  no  importance. 

Lazzaro  de’  Mendicantt,  Ciiuugh  of  St.  Of  no  impor- 
tance. 

LiiiRERiA  VECCiiiA.  A graceful  building  of  the  central  Renais- 
sanee,  designed  by  Sansovino,  1530,  and  much  admired  by  all 
architects  of  the  school.  It  was  continued  by  Scamozzi,  down 
the  whole  side  of  St.  Mark’s  Place,  adding  anotlier  story  above 
it,  which  modern  critics  blame  as  destroying  the  "eurithmia;” 
never  considering  that  had  the  two  low  stories  of  the  Library 
been  continued  along  the  entire  length  of  the  Piazza,  they 
Avould  have  looked  so  low  that  the  entire  dignity  of  the  square 
Avould  have  been  lost.  As  it  is,  the  Library  is  left  in  its 
originally  good  i)ro})ortions,  and  the  larger  mass  of  the  Pro- 
curatie  Nuove  forms  a more  majestic,  though  less  graceful, 
side  for  the  great  s(iuare. 

Rut  the  real  faults  of  the  building  are  not  in  its  number  of 
stories,  but  in  the  design  of  the  ])arts.  It  is  one  of  the  grossest 
examples  of  the  base  Renaissance  habit  of  turning  keijdones 
into  brackets^  throwing  them  out  in  bold  projection  (not  less 
than  a foot  and  a half)  beyond  the  mouldings  of  the  arch  ; a 
practice  utterly  barbarous,  inasmuch  as  it  evidently  tends  to 
dislocate  the  entire  arch,  if  any  real  Aveight  Avere  laid  on  the 
extremity  of  the  keystone  ; and  it  is  also  a very  characteristic 
example  of  tlie  vulgar  and  painful  mode  of  tilling  Si)andriL 
i)y  naked  ligurcs  in  alto-relievo,  leaning  against  the  arch  on 


318 


YEi^ETIAK 


each  side,  and  appearing  as  if  they  were  continually  in  danger 
of  slipping  off.  Many  of  these  figures  have,  however,  some 
merit  in  themselves  ^ and  the  whole  building  is  graceful  and 
effective  of  its  kind.  The  continuation  of  the  Procuratie 
Nuove,  at  the  western  extremity  of  St.  Mark’s  Place  (together 
with  Wious  apartments  in  the  great  line  of  the  Procuratie 
JSTuove)  forms  the  Royal  Palace,”  the  residence  of  the 
Emperor  when  at  Venice.  This  building  is  entirely  modern, 
built  in  1810,  in  imitation  of  the  Procuratie  Nuove,  and  on 
the  site  of  Sansovino’s  Church  of  San  Geminiano. 

In  this  range  of  buildings,  including  the  Royal  Palace,  the 
Procuratie  IN'uove,  the  old  Library,  and  the  Zecca”  which  is 
connected  with  them  (the  latter  being  an  ugly  building  of  very 
modem  date,  not  worth  notice  architecturally),  there  are  many 
most  valuable  pictures,  among  which  I would  especially  direct 
attention,  first  to  those  in  the  Zecca,  namely,  a beautiful  and 
strange  Madonna,  by  Benedetto  Diana ; two  noble  Bonifazios  ; 
and  two  groups,  by  Tintoret,  of  the  Provveditori  della  Zecca,  - 
by  no  means  to  be  missed,  whatever  may  be  sacrificed  to  see  . 
them,  on  account  of  the  quietness  and  veracity  of  their  un-  : 
affected  portraiture,  and  the  absolute  freedom  from  all  vanity  ' 
either  in  the  painter  or  in  his  subjects. 

Next,  in  the  Antisala”  of  the  old  Library,  observe  the  ? 
^^Sapienza”  of  Titian,  in  the  centre  of  the  ceiling;  a most  ' 
interesting  work  in  the  light  brilliancy  of  its  color,  and  the 
resemblance  to  Paul  Veronese.  Then,  in  the  great  hall  of  the 
old  Library,  examine  the  two  large  tintorets,  St.  Mark  sav-  = 
ing  a Saracen  from  Drowning,”  and  the  '^Stealing  of  his  ^ 
Body  from  Constantinople,”  both  rude,  but  great  (note  in  the  | 
latter  the  dashing  of  the  rain  on  the  pavement,  and  runnino-  ; 
of  the  water  about  the  feet  of  the  figures)  : then  in  the  narrow 
spaces  between  the  windows,  there  are  some  magnificent  sinol<  ‘ 
figures  by  Tintoret,  among  the  finest  things  of  the  kind  i:i 
Italy,  or  in  Europe.  Finally,  in  the  gallery  of  pictures  in 
the  Palazzo  Reale,  among  other  good  works  of  various  kinds, 
are  two  of  the  most  interesting  Bonifazios  in  Venice,  the 

Children  of  Israel  in  their  joumeyings,”  in  one  of  which,  if 
I recollect  right,  the  quails  are  coming  in  flight  across  a sun- 
set sky,  forming  one  of  the  earliest  instances  I know  of  a 


LIBRERIA  VECCHIA — MAKERIKI. 


319 


tliorouglily  natural  and  Turneresque  effect  being  felt  and  ren- 
dered by  the  old  masters.  The  picture  struck  me  chiefly  from 
this  circumstance  ; but,  th^  note-book  in  which  I had  described 
it  and  its  companion  having  been  lost  on  my  way  home,  I can- 
not now  give  a-  more  Special  account  of  them,  except  that  they 
are  long,  full  of  crowded  figures,  and  peculiarly  light  in  color 
and  handling  as  compared  with  Bonifazio’s  work  in  general. 

LiO,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance,  but  said  to  contain  a 
spoiled  Titian. 

Lio,  Salizzada  di  St.,  windows  in,  II.  252,  257. 

Loredak,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  near  the  Eialto,  II. 
123,  393.  Another  palace  of  this  name,  on  the  Campo  St. 
Stefano,  is  of  no  importance. 

LoREi^zo,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Luca,  Church  of  St.  Its  campanile  is  of  very  interesting 
and  quaint  early  Gothic,  and  it  is  said  to  contain  a Paul 
Veronese,  St  Luke  and  the  Virgin.^’  In  the  little  Campiello 
St.  Luca,  close  by,  is  a very  precious  Gothic  door,  rich  in 
brickwork,  of  the  thirteenth  century ; and  in  the  foundations 
of  the  houses  on  the  same  side  of  the  square,  but  at  the  othei* 
end  of  it,  are  traceable  some  shafts  and  arches  closely  resem- 
bling the  work  of  the  Cathedral  of  Murano,  and  evidently  hav- 
ing once  belonged  to  some  most  interesting  building. 

Lucia,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

M 

Maddaleka,  Church  of  Sta.  Maria.  Of  no  importance. 

Mlaipiero,  Palazzo,  on  the  Campo  St.  M.  Formosa,  facing 
the  canal  at  its  extremity.  A very  beautiful  example  of  the 
Byzantine  Eenaissance.  Note  the  management  of  color  in  its 
inlaid  balconies. 

Maiifriis’i,  Palazzo.  The  architecture  is  of  no  interest;  and 
as  it  is  in  contemplation  to  allow  the  collection  of  pictures  to 
be  sold,  I shall  take  no  note  of  them.  But  even  if  they  should 
remain,  there  are  few  of  the  churches  in  Venice  where  the 
traveller  had  not  better  spend  his  time  than  in  this  gallery;  as, 
with  the  exception  of  Titian’s  Entombment,”  one  or  two 
Giorgiones,  and  the  little  John  Bellini  (St.  Jerome),  the  pic- 
tures are  all  of  a kind  which  may  be  seen  elsewhere. 


320 


YENETIAK  TKDEX. 


Mangili  Valmaeaxa,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no 
importance. 

Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  importance. 

Manzoxi,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  near  the  Church  of 
the  Carita.  A perfect  and  very  rich  exampje  of  Byzantine 
Renaissance:  its  warm  yellow  marbles  are  magnificent. 

Marciliax",  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a Titian,  ^^Tobit 
and  the  Angel:”  otherwise  of  no  importance. 

Maria,  Churches  of  Sta.  See  Formosa,  Mater  Domixt, 
Miracoli,  Orto,  Salute,  and  Zobenigo. 

Marco,  Scuola  di  Sax^,  III.  16. 

Mark,  Church  of  St.,  history  of,  II.  57;  approach  to,  II.  71; 
general  teaching  of,  II.  112,  116;  measures  of  facade  of,  II. 
126;  balustrades  of,  II.  244,  247;  cornices  of,  I.  311;  horseshoe 
arches  of,  II.  249;  entrances  of,  II.  271,  III.  245;  shafts  of,  II. 
384;  base  in  baptistery  of,  I.  290;  mosaics  in  atrium  of,  II.  112; 
mosaics  in  cupola  of,  II.  114,  III.  192;  lily  capitals  of,  II.  137; 
Plates  illustrative  of  (Vol.  II.),  VI.  VII.  figs.  9,  10,  11,  VIII. 
figs.  8,  9,  12,  13,  15,  IX.  XI.  fig.  1,  and  Plate  III.  Vol.  III. 

Mark,  Square  of  St.  (Piazza  di  San  Marco),  anciently  a 
garden,  II.  58;  general  effect  of,  II.  66,  116;  plan  of,  II. 
282. 

Martiko,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Mater  Domiki,  Church  of  St.  Maria.  It  contains  two  im- 
portant pictures:  one  over  the  second  altar  on  the  right,  ^^St. 
Christina,”  by  Vincenzo  Catena,  a very  lovely  examiile  of  the 
A^enetian  religious  school;  and,  over  the  north  transept  door, 
the  Finding  of  the  Cross,”  by  Tintoret,  a carefully  painted 
and  attractive  picture,  but  by  no  means  a good  specimen  of 
the  master,  as  far  as  regards  power  of  conception.  He  does 
not  seem  to  have  entered  into  his  subject.  There  is  no  wonder, 
no  rapture,  no  entire  devotion  in  any  of  the  figures.  They 
are  only  interested  and  pleased  in  a mild  Avay;  and  the  kneel- 
ing woman  who  hands  the  nails  to  a man  stooping  forward  to 
receive  them  on  the  right  hand,  does  so  with  the  air  of  a per- 
son saying,  You  had  better  take  care  of  them;  tliey  may  be 
wanted  another  time.”  This  general  coldness  in  expression  is 
much  increased  by  the  presence  of  several  figures  on  the  right 
and  left,  introduced  for  the  sake  of  portraiture  merely;  and 


MAKGILI  VALMARAlS^A — MICHELE  IH  ISOLA. 


321 


the  reality^  as  well  as  the  feeling,  of  the  scene  is  destroyed  by 
our  seeing  one  of  the  youngest  and  weakest  of  the  women  with 
a huge  cross  lying  across  her  knees,  the  whole  weight  of  it 
resting  upon  her.  As  might  have  been  expected,  where  the 
conception  is  so  languid,  the  execution  is  little  delighted  in* 
it  is  throughout  steady  and  powerful,  but  in  no  place  affec- 
tionate, and  in  no  place  impetuous.  If  Tintoret  had  always 
painted  in  this  way,  he  would  have  sunk  into  a mere  me- 
chanist. It  is,  however,  a genuine  and  tolerably  well  pre- 
served specimen,  and  its  female  figures  are  exceedingly  grace- 
ful; that  of  St.  Helena  very  queenly,  though  by  no  means 
agreeable  in  feature.  Among  the  male  portraits  on  the  left 
there  is  one  different  from  the  usual  types  which  occur  either 
in  Venetian  paintings  or  Venetian  populace;  it  is  carefully 
painted,  and  more  like  a Scotch  Presbyterian  minister,  than  a 
Greek.  The  background  is  chiefly  composed  of  architecture, 
white,  remarkably  uninteresting  in  color,  and  still  more  so  in 
form.  This  is  to  be  noticed  as  one  of  the  unfortunate  results 
of  the  Kenaissance  teaching  at  this  period.  Had  Tintoret 
backed  his  Empress  Helena  with  Byzantine  architecture,  the 
picture  might  have  been  one  of  the  most  gorgeous  he  ever 
painted. 

Mater  Domini,  Campo  di  Sta.  Marta,  II.  261.  A most  in- 
teresting little  piazza,  surrounded  by  early  Gothic  houses,  once 
of  singular  beauty;  the  arcade  at  its  extremity,  of  fourth  order 
windows,  drawn  in  my  folio  work,  is  one  of  the  earliest  and 
loveliest  of  its  kind  in  Venice;  and  in  the  houses  at  the  side  is 
a group  of  second  order  windows  with  their  intermediate 
crosses,  all  complete,  and  well  worth  careful  examination. 

Michele  in  Isola,  Church  of  St.  On  the  island  between 
Venice  and  Murano.  The  little  Cappella  Emiliana  at  the  side 
of  it  has  been  much  admired,  but  it  w^ould  be  difficult  to  find 
a building  more  feelingless  or  ridiculous.  It  is  more  like  a 
German  summer-house,  or  angle  turret,  than  a chapel,  and 
may  be  briefly  described  as  a bee-hive  set  on  a low  hexagonal 
tower,  with  dashes  of  stone-work  about  its  windows  like  the 
flourishes  of  an  idle  penman. 

The  cloister  of  this  church  is  pretty;  and  the  attached 
cemetery  is  worth  entering,  for  the  sake  of  feeling  the 


322 


VEKETIAK  INDEX. 


strangeness  of  the  quiet  sleeping  ground  in  the  midst  of 
the  sea. 

Michiel  dalle  Colonne,  Palazzo.  Of  no  importance. 

Minelli,  Palazzo.  In  the  Corte  del  Maltese,  at  St.  Paternian. 
It  has  a spiral  external  staircase,  very  picturesque,  but  of  the 
fifteenth  century  and  without  merit. 

Miracoli,  Church  of  Sta.  Maria  dei.  The  most  interesting 
and  finished  example  in  Venice  of  the  Byzantine  Kenaissance, 
and  one  of  the  most  important  in  Italy  of  the  cinque-cento 
style.  All  its  sculptures  should  be  examined  with  great  care, 
as  the  best  possible  examples  of  a bad  style.  Observe,  for 
instance,  that  in  spite  of  the  beautiful  work  on  the  square 
pillars  which  supjiort  the  gallery  at  the  west  end,  they  have 
no  more  architectural  effect  than  two  wooden  posts.  The 
same  kind  of  failure  in  boldness  of  purpose  exists  through- 
out; and  the  building  is,  in  fact,  rather  a small  museum  of 
unmeaning,  though  refined  sculpture,  than  a "piece  of  archi- 
tecture. 

Its  grotesques  are  admirable  examples  of  the  base  Eaphael- 
esque  design  examined  above,  III.  136.  Note  especially  the 
children’s  heads  tied  up  by  the  hair,  in  the  lateral  sculptures 
at  the  top  of  the  altar  steps.  A rude  workman,  who  could 
hardly  have  carved  the  head  at  all,  might  have  allowed  this  or 
any  other  mode  of  expressing  discontent  with  his  own  doings; 
but  the  man  who.  could  carve  a child’s  head  so  perfectly  must 
have  been  wanting  in  all  human  feeling,  to  cut  it  off,  and  tie 
it  by  the  hair  to  a vine  leaf.  Observe,  in  the  Ducal  Palace, 
though  far  ruder  in  skill,  the  heads  always  emerge  from  the 
leaves,  they  are  never  tied  to  them. 

Misericordia,  Church  of.  The  church  itself  is  nothing,  and 
contains  nothing  worth  the  traveller’s  time;  but  tlie  Albergo 
de’  Confratelli  della  Misericordia  at  its  side  is  a very  interest- 
ing and  beautiful  relic  of  the  Gothic  Kenaissance.  Lazari  says, 
^^del  secolo  xiv.;”  but  I believe  it  to  be  later.  Its  traceries 
are  very  curious  and  rich,  and  the  sculpture  of  its  capitals  very 
fine  for  the  late  time.  Close  to  it,  on  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  canal  which  is  crossed  by  the  wooden  bridge,  is  one  of  the 
richest  Gothic  doors  in  Venice,  remarkable  for  the  appearance 
of  antiquity  in  the  general  design  and  stiffne*^^  of  its  figures, 


MICHELE  IK  ISOLA — MOISE. 


323 


tliougli  it  bears  its  date  1505.  Its  extravagant  crockets  are 
almost  the  only  features  whicli^  but  for  this  written  date, 
would  at  first  have  confessed  its  l&;teness;  but,  on  examination, 
the  figures  will  be  found  as  bad  and  spiritless  as  they  are  ap- 
parently archaic,  and  completely  exhibiting  the  Eenaissance 
palsy  of  imagination. 

The  general  effect  is,  however,  excellent,  the  whole  arrange- 
ment having  been  borrowed  from  earlier  work. 

The  action  of  the  statue  of  the  Madonna,  who  extends  her 
robe  to  shelter  a group  of  diminutive  figures,  representative  of 
the  Society  for  whose  house  the  sculpture  was  executed,  may 
be  also  seen  in  most  of  the  later  Venetian  figures  of  the  Virgin 
which  occii})y  similar  situations.  The  image  of  Christ  is 
placed  in  a medallion  on  her  breast,  thus  fully,  though  con- 
ventionally, expressing  the  idea  of  self-support  which  is  so 
often  partially  indicated  by  the  great  religious  painters  in  their 
representations  of  the  infant  Jesus. 

Moise,  Church  of  St.,  III.  124.  Notable  as  one  of  the  basest 
examples  of  the  basest  school  of  the  Eenaissance.  It  contains 
one  important  picture,  namely  Christ  washing  the  Disciples’ 
Feet,”  by  Tintoret;  on  the  left  side  of  the  chapel,  north  of  the 
choir.  This  jiictiire  has  been  originally  dark,  is  now  much 
faded — in  parts,  I believe,  altogether  destroyed— and  is  hung 
in  the  worst  light  of  a chapel,  where,  on  a sunny  day  at  noon, 
one  could  not  easily  read  without  a candle.  I cannot,  there- 
fore, give  much  information  respecting  it;  but  it  is  certainly 
one  of  the  least  successful  of  the  painter’s  works,  and  both 
careless  and  unsatisfactory  in  its  composition  as  well  as  its 
color.  One  circumstance  is  noticeable,  as  in  a considerable 
degree  detracting  from  the  interest  of  most  of  Tintoret’s  re- 
presentations of  our  Saviour  with  his  disciples.  He  never 
loses  sight  of  the  fact  that  all  were  poor,  and  the  latter  igno- 
rant; and  while  he  never  paints  a senator,  or  a saint  once 
thoroughly  canonized,  except  as  a gentleman,  he  is  very  care- 
ful to  paint  the  Apostles,  in  their  living  intercourse  with  the 
Saviour,  in  such  a manner  that  the  spectator  may  see  in  an 
instant,  as  the  Pharisee  did  of  old,  that  they  were  unlearned 
and  ignorant  men;  and,  whenever  we  find  them  in  a room,  it 
is  always  such  a one  as  would  be  inhabited  by  the  lower  classes. 


324 


VEKETIAK  IKBEX. 


There  seems  some  yiolation  of  this  loractice  in  the  dais,  or 
flight  of  steps,  at  the  top  of  which  the  Saviour  is  placed  in  the 
present  picture;  but  we  are  quickly  reminded  that  the  guests’ 
chamber  or  upper  room  ready  prepared  was  not  likely  to  have 
been  in  a palace,  by  the  humble  furniture  upon  the  floor,  con- 
sisting of  a tub  with  a copper  saucepan  in  it,  a coffee-pot,  and 
a pair  of  bellows,  curiously  associated  with  a symbolic  cup  with 
a wafer,  which,  however,  is  in  an  injured  part  of  the  canvas, 
and  may  have  been  added  by  the  priests.  I am  totally  unable 
to  state  what  the  background  of  the  picture  is  or  has  been; 
and  the  only  point  farther  to  be  noted  about  it  is  the  solemnity, 
which,  in  spite  of  the  familiar  and  homely  circumstances  above 
noticed,  the  painter  has  given  to  the  scene,  by  placing  the 
Saviour,  in  the  act  of  washing  the  feet  of  Peter,  at  the  top  of 
a circle  of  steps,  on  which  the  other  Apostles  kneel  in  adora- 
tion and  astonishment. 

Moeo,  Palazzo.  See  Othello. 

Morosini,  Palazzo,  near  the  Ponte  dell’  Ospedaletto,  at  San 
Giovannie  Paolo.  Outside  it  is  not  interesting,  though  the 
gateway  shows  remains  of  brickwork  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
Its  interior  court  is  singularly  beautiful;  the  staircase  of  early 
fourteenth  century  Gothic  has  originally  been  superb,  and  the 
window  in  the  angle  above  is  the  most  perfect  that  I know  in 
Venice  of  the  kind;  the  lightly  sculptured  coronet  is  exqui- 
sitely introduced  at  the  top  of  its  spiral  shaft. 

This  palace  still  belongs  to  the  Morosini  family,  to  whose 
present  representative,  the  Count  Carlo  Morosini,  the  reader 
is  indebted  for  the  note  on  the  character  of  his  ancestors, 
above.  III.  213.  ^ 

Morosixi,  Palazzo,  at  St.  Stefano.  Of  no  importance. 

N 

Naki-Mocekigo,  Palazzo.  (Now  Hotel  Danieli.)  A glorious 
example  of  the  central  Gothic,  nearly  contemporary  with  the 
finest  part  of  the  Ducal  Palace.  Though  less  impressive  in 
effect  than  the  Casa  Poscari  or  Casa  Bernardo,  it  is  of  purer 
architecture  than  either:  and  quite  unique  in  the  delicacy  of 
the  form  of  the  cusps  in  the  central  group  of  windows,  which 
are  shaped  like  broad  scimitars,  tlie  upper  foil  of  the  windows  ^ 


MOISE — ORTO, 


325 


being  very  small.  If  the  traveller  will  compare  these  windows 
with  the  neighboring  traceries  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  he  will 
easily  perceive  the  peculiarity. 

Nicolo  del  Lido,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Nome  di  Gesu,  Church  of  the.  Of  no  importance. 

0 

Orfani,  Church  of  thh.  Of  no  importance. 

Orto,  Church  of  Sta.  Maria,  dell\  An  interesting  example 
of  Eenaissance  Gothic,  the  traceries  of  the  windows  being  yery 
rich  and  quaint. 

It  contains  four  most  important  Tintorets:  The  Last 

Judgment,”  ^^The  Worship  of  the  Golden  Calf,”  ^^The  Pre- 
sentation of  the  Virgin,”  and  ^‘'Martyrdom  of  St.  Agnes.” 
The  first  two  are  among  his  largest  and  mightiest  works,  but 
grievously  injured  by  damp  and  neglect;  and  unless  the  travel- 
ler is  accustomed  to  decipher  the  thoughts  in  a picture  patient- 
ly, he  need  not  hope  to  derive  any  pleasure  from  them.  But 
no  pictures  will  better  reward  a resolute  study.  The  following 
account  of  the  Last  Judgment,”  given  in  the  second  volume 
of  Modern  Painters,”  will  be  useful  in  enabling  the  traveller 
to  enter  into  the  meaning  of  the  picture,  but  its  real  power  is 
only  to  be  felt  by  patient  examination  of  it. 

By  Tintoret  only  has  this  unimaginable  event  (the  Last 
Judgment)  been  grappled  with  in  its  Verity;  not  typically  nor 
symbolically,  but  as  they  may  see  it  who  shall  not  sleep,  but  be 
changed.  Only  one  traditional  circumstance  he  has  received, 
with  Dante  and  Michael  Angelo,  the  Boat  of  the  Condemned; 
but  the  impetuosity  of  his  mind  bursts  out  even  in  the  adop- 
tion of  this  image;  he  has  not  stopped  at  the  scowling  ferry- 
man of  the  one,  nor  at  the  sweeping  blow  and  demon  dragging' 
of  the  other,  but,  seized  Hylas  like  by  the  limbs,  and  tearing 
up  the  earth  in  his  agony,  the  victim  is  dashed  into  his 
destruction;  nor  is  it  the  sluggish  Lethe,  nor  the  fiery  lake, 
that  bears  the  cursed  vessel,  but  the  oceans  of  the  earth  and 
the  waters  of  the  firmament  gathered  into  one  white,  ghastly 
cataract;  the  river  of  the  wrath  of  God,  roaring  down  into  the 
gulf  where  the  world  has  melted  with  its  fervent  heat,  choked 
with  the  ruins  of  nations,  and  the  limbs  of  its  corpses  tossed 


826 


VENETIAN  IKDEX. 


out  of  its  whirling,  like  water-wheels.  Bat-like,  out  of  the 
holes  and  caverns  and  shadows  of  the  eartli,  the  bones  gather, 
and  the  clay  heaps  heave,  rattling  and  adhering  into  half- 
kneaded  anatomies,  that  crawl,  and  startle,  and  struggle  up 
among  the  putrid  weeds,  with  the  clay  clinging  to  their  clotted 
hair,  and  their  heavy  eyes  sealed  by  the  earth  darkness  yet, 
like  his  of  old  who  went  his  way  unseeing  to  the  Siloam  Pool; 
shaking  off  one  by  one  the  dreams  of  the  prison-house,  hardly 
hearing  the  'clangor  of  the  trumpets  of  the  armies  of  God, 
blinded  yet  more,  as  they  awake,  by  the  white  light  of  the  new 
Heaven,  until  the  great  vortex  of  the  four  winds  bears  up  their 
bodies  to  the  judgment  seat;  the  Firmament  is  all  full  of  them, 
a very  dust  of  human  souls,  that  drifts,  and  floats,  and  falls 
into  the  interminable,  inevitable  light;  the  bright  clouds  are 
darkened  with  them  as  with  thick  snow,  currents  of  atom  life 
in  the  arteries,  of  heaven,  now  soaring  up  slowly,  and  higher 
and  higher  still,  till  the  eye  and  the  thought  can  follow  no 
farther,  borne  up,  wingless,  by  their  inward  faith  and  by  the 
angel  powers  invisible,  now  hurled  in  countless  drifts  of  horror 
before  the  breath  of  their  condemnation.’^ 

Note  in  the  opposite  picture  the  way  the  clouds  are  wrapped 
about  in  the  distant  Sinai. 

The  figure  of  the  little  Madonna  in  the  ^^Presentation” 
should  be  compared  with  Titian’s  in  his  picture  of  the  same 
subject  in  the  Academy.  I prefer  Tintoret’s  infinitely:  and 
note  how  much  finer  is  the  feeling  with  which  Tintoret  has 
relieved  the  glory  round  her  head  against  the  pure  sky,  than 
that  which  influenced  Titian  in  encumbering  his  distance  with 
architecture. 

The  Martyrdom  of  St.  Agnes”  was  a lovely  picture.  It 
has  been  restored”  since  I saw  it. 

OsPEDALETTO,  Church  OF  THE.  The  most  iiionstrous  example 
of  the  Grotesque  Renaissance  which  there  is  in  Venice;  the 
sculptures  on  its  facade  representing  masses  of  diseased  figures 
and  swollen  fruit. 

It  is  almost  worth  devoting  an  hour  to  the  successive  exam- 
ination of  five  buildings,  as  illustrative  of  the  last  degradation 
of  the  Renaissance.  San  Mois6  ia  the  most  clumsy,  Santa 
Maria  Zobenigo  the  most  impious,  St.  Eustachio  the  most 


OKTO — PIETRO. 


32 


ridiculous,  tlie  Ospedaletto  the  most  monstrous,  and  the  head 
at  Santa  Maria  Formosa  tlie  most  foul. 

Othello,  House  of,  at  the  Carmmi.  The  researches  of  Mr. 
Brown  into  the  origin  of  the  play  of  Othello  ’’  have,  I think, 
determined  that  Shakspeare  wrote  on  definite  historical 
grounds;  and  that  Othello  may  he  in  many  points  identified 
with  Christopher  Moro,  the  lieutenant  of  the  republic  at 
Cyprus,  in  1508.  See  ^^Eagguagli  su  Maria  Sanuto,”  i. 
252. 

His  palace  was  standing  till  very  lately,  a Gothic  building 
of  the  fourteenth  century,  of  which  Mr.  Brown  possesses  a 
drawing.  It  is  now  destroyed,  and  a modern  square-windowed 
house  bfiilt  on  its  site.  A statue,  said  to  be  a portrait  of  Moro, 
but  a most  paltry  work,  is  set  in  a niche  in  the  modern  wall. 

P 

Paktaleoke,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a Paul  Veronese; 
otherwise  of  no  importance. 

Pater^^ian^,  Church  of  St.  Its  little  leaning  tower  forms  an 
interestiijg  object  as  the  traveller  sees  it  from  the  narrow  canal 
which  passes  beneath  the  Porte  San  Paternian.  The  two 
arched  lights  of  the  belfry  appear  of  very  early  workmanship, 
probably  of  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

Pesaro  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  The  most  powerful  and 
impressive  in  effect  of  all  the  palaces  of  the  Grotesque  Eenais- 
sance.  The  heads  upon  its  foundation  are  very  characteristic 
of  the  period,  but  there  is  more  genius  in  them  than  usual. 
Some  of  the  mingled  expressions  of  faces  and  grinning  casques 
are  very  clever. 

Piazzetta,  pillars  of,  see  Final  Appendix  under  head  Capital.’’ 
The  two  magnificent  blocks  of  marble  brought  from  St.  Jean 
d’Acre,  which  form  one  of  the  principal  ornaments  of  the 
Piazzetta,  are  Greek  sculpture  of  the  sixth  century,  and  will 
be  described  in  my  folio  work. 

PiETA,  Church  of  the.  Of  no  importance. 

Pietro,  Church  of  St.,  at  Murano.  Its  pictures,  once  valu- 
able, are  now  hardly  worth  examination,  having  been  spoiled 
by  neglect. 

Pietro,  Di  Castello,  Church  of  St.,  I.  7,  361.  It  is  said  to 


328 


VEKETIAis^  INDEX. 


contain  a Paul  Veronese,  and  I suppose  the  so-called  Chair 
of  St.  Peter  ’’  must  be  worth  examining. 

PiSANi,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  The  latest  Venetian 
Gothic,  just  passing  into  Kenaissance.  The  capitals  of  the 
first  floor  windows  are,  however,  singularly  spirited  and  grace- 
fill,  very  daringly  undercut,  and  worth  careful  examination. 
The  Paul  Veronese,  once  the  glory  of  this  palace,  is,  I believe, 
not  likely  to  remain  in  Venice.  The  other  picture  in  the  same 
room,  the  Death  of  Darius,’’  is  of  no  value. 

PiSANi,  Palazzo,  at  St.  Stefano.  Late  Kenaissance,  and  of  no 
merit,  but  grand  in  its  colossal  proportions,  especially  when 
seen  from  the  narrow  canal  at  its  side,  which  terminated  by 
the  apse  of  the  Church  of  San  Stefano,  is  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  and  impressive  little  pieces  of  water  scenery  in 
Venice. 

Polo,  Chukch  of  St.  Of  no  importance,  except  as  an  example 
of  the  advantages  accruing  from  restoration.  M.  Lazari  says 
of  it,  Before  this  church  was  modernized,  its  principal 
chapel  was  adorned  with  Mosaics,  and  possessed  a pala  of 
silver  gilt,  of  Byzantine  workmanship,  which  is  now  lost.” 

Polo,  Square  of  St.  (Campo  San  Polo.)  A large  and  im- 
portant square,  rendered  interesting  chiefly  by  three  palaces 
on  the  side  of  it  opposite  the  church,  of  central  Gothic  (1360), 
and  fine  of  their  time,  though  small.  One  of  their  capitals 
has  been  given  in  Plate  II.  of  this  volume,  fig.  12.  They  are 
remarkable  as  being  decorated  with  sculptures  of  the  Gothic 
time,  in  imitation  of  Byzantine  ones;  the  period  being  marked 
by  the  dog-tooth  and  cable  being  used  instead  of  the  dentil 
round  the  circles. 

Polo,  Palazzo,  at  San  G.  Grisostomo  (the  house  of  Marco  Polo), 
II.  139.  Its  interior  court  is  full  of  interest,  showing  fragments 
of  the  old  building  in  every  direction,  cornices,  windows,  and 
doors,  of  almost  every  period,  mingled  among  modern  rebuild- 
ing and  restoration  of  all  degrees  of  dignity. 

Porta  Della  Carta,  II.  302. 

Priuli,  Palazzo.  A most  important  and  beautiful  eiirly  Gothic 
Palace,  at  San  Severe;  the  main  entrance  is  from  the  Funda- 
mento  San  Severe,  but  the  principal  facade  is  on  the  other 
side,  towards  the  canal.  The  entrance  has  been  grievously 


PIETRO — RIALTO. 


320 


defaced,  having  had  winged  lions  filling  the  spandrils  of  its 
pointed  arch,  of  which  only  feeble  traces  are  now  left,  the 
facade  has  very  early  fourth  order  windows  in  the  lower  story, 
and  above,  the  beautiful  range  of  fifth  order  windows  drawn 
at  the  bottom  of  Plate  XVIII.  Vol.  II.,  where  the  heads  of  the 
fourth  order  range  are  also  seen  (note  their  inequality,  the 
larger  one  at  the  flank).  This  Palace  has  two  most  interesting 
traceried  angle  windows  also,  which,  however,  I believe  are 
later  than  those  on  the  fagade;  and  finally,  a rich  and  bold 
interior  staircase. 

Procuratie  Xuoye,  see  ^^Libreria’’  Vecchia:  A graceful 
series  buildings,  of  late  fifteenth  century  design,  forming  the 
northern  side  of  St.  Mark’s  Place,  but  of  no  particular  interest. 

Q 

Queriki,  Palazzo,  now  the  Beccherie,  II.  255,  III.  234. 

R 

Raffaelle,  Chiesa  dell’  Ais'GELO.  Said  to  contain  a Bonifazio, 
otherwise  of  no  importance. 

Redeotore,  Church  of  the,  II.  378.  It  contains  three  inter- 
esting John  Bellinis,  and  also,  in  the  sacristy,  a most  beautiful 
Paul  Veronese. 

Remer,  Corte  del,  house  in,  II.  251. 

Rezzo^n^ico,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  the  Grotesque 
Renaissance  time,  but  less  extravagant  than  usual. 

Rialto,  Bridge  of  the.  The  best  building  raised  in  the  time 
of  the  Grotesque  Renaissance;  very  noble  in  its  simplicity,  in 
its  proportions,  and  in  its  masonry.  Note  especially  the 
grand  way  in  which  the  oblique  archstones  rest  on  the  hut- 
ments of  the  bridge,  safe,  palpably  both  to  the  sense  and  eye: 
note  also  the  sculpture  of  the  Annunciation  on  the  southern 
side  of  it;  how  beautifully  arranged,  so  as  to  give  more  light- 
ness and  a grace  to  the  arch — the  dove,  flying  towards  the 
Madonna,  forming  the  Iceystone, — and  thus  the  whole  action 
of  the  figures  being  parallel  to  the  curve  of  the  arch,  while  all 
the  masonry  is  at  right  angles  to  it.  Note,  finally,  one  circum- 
stance which  gives  peculiar  firmness  to  the  figure  of  the  angel, 
and  associates  itself  wdth  the  general  expression  of  strength  in 


330 


YEKETIA^^  IISTDEX. 


the  whole  building;  namely  that  the  sole  of  the  advanced  foot 
is  set  perfectly  levels  as  if  placed  on  the  ground,  instead  of 
being  thrown  back  behind  like  a heron’s,  as  in  most  modern 
figures  of  tliis  kind. 

The  sculptures  themselves  are  not  good;  but  these  pieces  of 
feeling  in  them  are  very  admirable.  The  two  figures  on  the 
other  side,  St.  Mark  and  St.  Theodore,  are  inferior,  though  all 
by  the  same  sculptor,  Girolamo  Campagna. 

The  bridge  was  built  by  Antonio  da  Ponte,  in  1588.  It  was 
anciently  of  wood,  with  a drawbridge  in  the  centre,  a repre- 
sentation of  which  may  be  seen  in  one  of  Carpaccio’s  pictures 
at  the  Accademia  delle  Belle  Arti:  and  the  traveller  should 
observe  that  the  interesting  effect,  both  of  this  and  the  Bridge 
of  Sighs,  depends  in  great  part  on  their  both  being  more  than 
bridges;  the  one  a covered  passage,  the  other  a row  of  shops, 
sustained  on  an  arch.  No  such  effect  can  be  produced  merely 
by  the  masonry  of  the  roadway  itself. 

Kio  DEL  Palazzo,  II.  282. 

Pocco,  Campiello  di  San,  windows  in,  II.  258. 

Eocco,  Church  of  St.  Notable  only  for  the  most  interesting  ^ 
pictures  by  Tintoret  which  it  contains,  namely:  , < 

1.  Sa?i  Rocco  before  the  Pope,  (On  the  left  of  the  door  as  j | 
we  eater.)  A delightful  picture  in  his  best  manner,  but  not  t 
much  labored;  and,  like  several  other  pictures  in  this  churcl , ^ 
it  seems  to  me  to  have  been  executed  at  some  period  of  the  . ; 
painter’s  life  when  he  was  either  in  ill  health,  or  else  had  got  - 
into  a mechanical  way  of  painting,  from  having  made  too  little  . 
reference  to  nature  for  a long  time.  There  is  something  stiff  -i 
and  forced  in  the  white  draperies  on  both  sides,  and  a general  J 
character  about  the  whole  which  I can  feel  better  than  I can  | 
describe;  but  which,  if  I had  been  the  painter’s  physician,  \ 
would  have  immediately  caused  me  to  order  him  to  shut  up  ■ 
his  painting-room,  and  take  a voyage  to  the  Levant,  and  back 
again.  The  figure  of  the  Pope  is,  however,  extremely  beauti-  ^ 
fill,  and  is  not  unworthy,  in  its  jew^elled  magnificence,  here 
dark  against  the  sky,  of  comparison  Avith  the  figure  of  the  high  a 
priest  in  the  ^^Presentation,”  in  the  Scuola  di  San  Eocco.  3 

2.  Annunciation,  (On  the  other  side  of  the  door,  on  enter-3 
ing.)  A most  disagreeable  and  dead  picture,  having  all  tlieM 


RIALTO — ROCCO. 


331 


faults  of  the  age,  and  none  of  the  merits  of  the  painter.  It 
must  be  a matter  of  future  investigation  to  me,  what  could 
cause  the  fall  of  his  mind  from  a conception  so  great  and  so 
fiery  as  that  of  the  Annunciation’^  in  the  Scuola  di  San 
Bocco,  to  this  miserable  reprint  of  an  idea  worn  out  centuries 
before.  One  of  the  most  inconceivable  things  in  it,  considered 
as  the  work  of  Tintoret,  is  that  where  the  angel’s  robe  drifts 
away  behind  his  limb,  one  cannot  tell  by  the  character  of  the 
outline,  or  by  the  tones  of  the  color,  whether  the  cloud  comes 
in  before  the  robe,  or  whether  the  robe  cuts  upon  the  cloud. 
The  Virgin  is  uglier  than  that  of  the  Scuola,  and  not  half  so 
real;  and  the  draperies  are  crumpled  in  the  most  commonplace 
and  ignoble  folds.  It  is  a picture  well  worth  study,  as  an  ex- 
ample of  the  extent  to  which  the  greatest  mind  may  be  be- 
trayed by  the  abuse  of  its  powers,  and  the  neglect  of  its  proper 
food  in  the  study  of  nature. 

3.  Pool  of  Betliesda,  (On  the  right  side  of  the  church,  in  its 
centre,  the  lowest  of  the  two  pictures  which  occupy  the  wall.) 
A noble  Avork,  but  eminently  disagreeable,  as  must  be  all 
pictures  of  this  subject;  and  Avith  the  same  character  in  it  of 
undefinable  Avant,  Avhich  I have  noticed  in  the  tAvo  preceding 
Avorks.  The  main  figure  in  it  is  the  cripple,  avIio  has  taken 
up  his  bed;  but  the  Avhole  effect  of  this  action  is  lost  by  his 
not  turning  to  Christ,  but  flinging  it  on  his  shoulder  like  a 
triumphant  porter  Avith  a huge  load;  and  the  corrupt  Eenais- 
sance  architecture,  among  Avhich  the  figures  are  croAvded,  is 
both  ugly  in  itself,  and  much  too  small  for  them.  It  is  Avorth 
noticing,  for  the  benefit  of  persons  AAdio  find  fault  with  the 
perspective  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites,  that  the  perspective  of  the 
brackets  beneath  these  pillars  is  utterly  absurd;  and  that,  in 
fine,  the  presence  or  absence  of  perspective  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  merits  of  a great  picture:  not  that  the  perspective  of 
the  Pre-Raphaelites  i$  false  in  any  case  that  I have  examined, 
the  objection  being  just  as  untenable  as  it  is  ridiculous. 

4.  San  Rocco  in  the  Desert,  (Above  the  last-named  picture. ) 
A single  recumbent  figure  in  a not  A^ery  interesting  landscape, 
deserving  less  attention  than  a picture  of  St.  Martin  just  op- 
])osite  to  it, — a noble  and  knightly  figure  on  horseback  bv 
Pordeuone,  to  Avliich  I cannot  pay  a greater  compliment  than 


332 


VEXETIA^r  IlS'DEX. 


by  saying  that  I was  a considerable  time  in  doubt  whether  or 
not  it  was  another  Tintoret. 

5.  Sci7i  Eocco  in  the  Hospital,  (On  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  altar.)  There  are  four  vast  pictures  by  Tintoret  in  the 
dark  choir  of  this  church,  not  only  important  by  their  size 
(each  being  some  twenty-five  feet  long  by  ten  feet  high),  but 
also  elaborate  compositions;  and  remarkable,  one  for  its  extra- 
ordinary landscape,  and  the  other  as  the  most  studied  picture 
in  which  the  painter  has  introduced  horses  in  violent  action. 
In  order  to  show  what  waste  of  human  mind  there  is  in  these 
dark  churches  of  Venice,  it  is  worth  recording  that,  as  I was 
examining  these  j)ictures,  there  came  in  a party  of  eighteen 
German  tourists,  not  hurried,  nor  jesting  among  themselves 
as  large  parties  often  do,  but  patiently  submitting  to  their 
cicerone,  and  evidently  desirous  of  doing  their  duty  as  intelli- 
gent travellers.  They  sat  down  for  a long  time  on  the  benches 
of  the  nave,  looked  a little  at  the  ^^Pool  of  Bethesda,’’  walked 
up  into  the  choir  and  there  heard  a lecture  of  considerable 
length  from  their  valet-de-place  upon  some  subject  connected 
with  the  altar  itself,  which,  being  in  German,  I did  not  under- 
stand; they  then  turned  and  went  slowly  out  of  the  church, 
not  one  of  the  whole  eighteen  ever  giving  a single  glance  to 
any  of  the  four  Tintorets,  and  only  one  of  them,  as  far  as  I 
saw,  even  raising  his  eyes  to  the  walls  on  which  they  hung, 
and  immediately  withdrawing  them,  with  a jaded  and  non- 
cliala7it  expression  easily  interpre table  into  Nothing  but  old 
black  pictures.”  The  two  Tintorets  above  noticed,  at  the  end 
of  the  church,  v/ere  passed  also  without  a glance;  and  this 
neglect  is  not  because  the  pictures  have  nothing  in  them  ca- 
pable of  arresting  the  popular  mind,  but  simply  because  they 
are  totally  in  the  dark,  or  confused  among  easier  and  more . 
prominent  objects  of  attention.  This  picture,  which  I have  - 
called  ^^St.  Eocco  in  the  Hospital,”  shows  him,  I suppose,  in  : 
his  general  ministrations  at  such  places,  and  is  one  of  the  ! 
usual  representations  of  a disgusting  subject  from  which 
neither  Orcagna  nor  Tintoret  seems  ever  to  have  shrunk.  It  : 
is  a very  noble  picture,  carefully  composed  and  highly  wrought;  \ 
but  to  me  gives  no  pleasure,  first,  on  account  of  its  subject,  jj 
secondly,  on  account  of  its  dull  brown  tone  all  over, — it  being! 


BOCCO,  CIIUBCH  OF  ST. 


333 


impossible^  or  nearly  so,  in  sncli  a scene,  and  at  all  events  in- 
consistent with  its  feeling,  to  introduce  vivid  color  of  any  kind. 
So  it  is  a brown  study  of  diseased  limbs  in  a close  room. 

6.  Cattle  Piece,  (Above  the  picture  last  described. ) I can 
give  no  other  name  to  this  picture,  whose  subject  I can  neither 
guess  nor  discover,  the  picture  being  in  the  dark,  and  the 
guide-bboks  leaving  me  in  the  same  position.  All  I can  make 
out  of  it  is,  that  there  is  a noble  landscape  with  cattle  and 
figures.  It  seems  to  me  the  best  landscape  of  Tintoret’s  in 
Venice,  except  the  ^‘Flight  into  Egypt;’’  and  is  even  still  more 
interesting  from  its  savage  character,  the  principal  trees  being 
pines,  something  like  Titian’s  in  his  ^^St.  Francis  receiving 
the  Stigmata,”  and  chestnuts  on  the  slopes  and  in  the  hollows 
of  the  hills;  the  animals  also  seem  first-rate.  But  it  is  too 
high,  too  much  faded,  and  too  much  in  the  dark  to  be  made 
out.  It  seems  never  to  have  been  rich  in  color,  rather  cool 
and  grey,  and  very  full  of  light. 

7.  Finding  of  Body  of  San  Rocco.  (On  the  left-hand  side 
of  the  altar.)  An  elaborate,  but  somewhat  confused  picture, 
withafiying  angel  in  a blue  drapery;  but  it  seemed  to  me  alto- 
gether uninteresting,  or  perhaps  requiring  more  study  than  I 
was  able  to  give  it. 

8.  San  Rocco  in  Campo  d^  Armata,  So  this  picture  is  call- 
ed by  the  sacristan.  I could  see  no  San  Eocco  in  it;  nothing 
but  a wild  group  of  horses  and  warriors  in  the  most  magnifi- 
cent confusion  of  fall  and  flight  ever  painted  by  man.  They 
seem  all  dashed  different  ways  as  if  by  a whirlwind;  and  a 
whirlwind  there  must  be,  or  a thunderbolt,  behind  them,  for  a 
huge  tree  is  torn  u}3  and  hurled  into  the  air  beyond  the  central 
figure,  as  if  it  were  a shivered  lance.  Two  of  the  horses  meet 
in  the  midst,  as  if  in  a tournament;  but  in  madness  of  fear, 
not  in  hostility;  on  the  horse  to  the  right  is  a standard-bearer, 
who  stoops  as  from  some  foe  behind  him,  with  the  lance 
laid  across  his  saddle-bow,  level,  and  the  flag  stretched  out  be- 
hind him  as  he  flies,  like  the  sail  of  a ship  drifting  from  its 
mast;  the  central  horseman,  who  meets  the  shock,  of  storm,  or 
enemy,  whatever  it  be,  is  hurled  backwards  from  his  seat,  like 
a stone  from  a sling;  and  tliis  figure  with  the  shattered  tree 
trunk  behind  it,  is  the  most  noble  part  of  the  picture.  There 


334 


VEJ^^ETIAN  INDEX. 


is  another  grand  horse  on  the  right,  however,  also  in  full  ac- 
tion. Two  gigantic  figures  on  foot,  on  the  left,  meant  to  be 
nearer  than  the  others,  would,  it  seems  to  me,  have  injured  the 
picture,  had  they-  been  clearly  visible;  but  time  has  reduced 
them  to  perfect  subordination. 

Eocco,  ScuoLA  Di  San,  bases  of,  I.  291,  431;  soffit  ornaments  of, 

I.  337.  An  interesting  building  of  the  early  Eenaissance 
(1517),  passing  into  Koman  Eenaissance.  The  wreaths  of  leaf- 
age about  its  shafts  are  wonderfully  delicate  and  fine,  though 
misplaced. 

As  regards  the  pictures  which  it  contains,  it  is  one  of  the  three 
most  precious  buildings^  in  Italy;  buildings,  I mean,  consist- 
ently decorated  with  a series  of  paintings  at  the  time  of  their 
erection,  and  still  exhibiting  that  series  in  its  original  order.  I 
suppose  there  can  be  little  question,  but  that  the  three  most 
important  edifices  of  this  kind  in  Italy  are  the  Sistine  Chapel, 
the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa,  and  the  Scuola  di  San  Eocco  at 
Venice:  the  first  is  painted  by  Michael  Angelo;  the  second  by 
Orcagna,  Benozzo  Gozzoli,  Pietro  Laurati,  and  several  other 
men  whose  works  are  as  rare  as  they  are  precious;  and  the 
third  by  Tintoret.  ; 

Whatever  the  traveller  may  miss  in  Venice,  he  should  there- 
fore give  unembarrassed  attention  and  unbroken  time  to  the 
Scuola  di  San  Eocco;  and  I shall,  accordingly,  number  the  pic-  • 
tures,  and  note  in  them,  one  by  one,  wdiat  seemed  to  me  most 
worthy  of  observation. 

There  are  sixty-two  in  all,  but  eight  of  these  are  merely  of 
children  or  children’s  heads,  and  two  of  unimportant  figures.  ; 
The  number  of  valuable  pictures  is  fifty-two;  arranged  on  the  j 
walls  and  ceilings  of  three  rooms,  so  badly  lighted,  in  conse- 
quence  of  the  admirable  arrangements  of  the  Eenaissance  archi-  ■ 
tect,  that  it  is  only  in  the  early  morning  that  some  of  the  pictures  ^ 
can  be  seen  at  all,  nor  can  they  ever  be  seen  but  imperfectly. 
They  were  all  painted,  however,  for  their  places  in  the  dark,  and, 
as  compared  with  Tintoret’s  other  works,  are  therefore,  for  the 
most  part,  nothing  more  than  vast  sketches,  made  to  produce, 
under  a certain  degree  of  shadow,  the  effect  of  finished  pic- 
tures. Their  treatment  is  thus  to  be  considered  as  a kind  of 
sccne-i)ainting;  differing  from  ordinary  scene-painting  only  in  s 


ROCCO^  SCUOLA  I)I  SA^T. 


335 


this^  that  the  effect  aimed  at  is  woi  that  of  a natural  scene  but 
a perfect  joicture.  They  differ  in  this  respect  from  all  other 
existing  works;  for  there  is  not^  as  far  as  I know,  any  other 
instance  in  which  a great  master  has  consented  to  work  for 
a room  plunged  into  almost  total  obscurity.  It  is  probable 
that  none  but  Tintoret  would  have  undertaken  the  task,  and 
most  fortunate  tliat  he  was  forced  to  it.  For  in  this  magnifi- 
cent scene-painting  we  have,  of  course,  more  wonderful  exam- 
ples, both  of  his  handling,  and  knowledge  of  effect,  than  could 
ever  have  been  exhibited  in  finished  pictures;  while  the  neces- 
sity of  doing  much  with  few  strokes  keeps  his  mind  so  com- 
pletely on  the  stretch  throughout  the  work  (while  yet  the 
velocity  of  production  prevented  his  being  wearied),  that  no 
otlier  series  of  his  works  exhibits  powers  so  exalted.  On  the 
other  hand,  owing  to  the  velocity  and  coarseness  of  the  paint- 
ing, it  is  more  liable  to  injury  through  drought  or  damp;  and, 
as  the  walls  have  been  for  years  continually  running  down  with 
rain,  and  what  little  sun  gets  into  the  place  contrives  to  fall  all 
day  right  on  one  or  other  of  the  pictures,  they  are  nothing  but 
wrecks  of  what  they  were;  and  the  ruins  of  paintings  originally 
coarse  are  not  likely  ever  to  be  attractive  to  the  public  mind. 
Twenty  or  thirty  years  ago  they  were  taken  down  to  be  re- 
touched; but  the  man  to  whom  the  task  was  committed  provi- 
dentially died,  and  only  one  of  them  was  spoiled.  I have 
found  traces  of  his  work  upon  another,  but  not  to  an  extent 
very  seriously  destructive.  The  rest  of  the  sixty-two,  or,  at 
any  rate,  all  that  are  in  the  upper  room,  appear  entirely  intact. 

Although,  as  compared  with  his  other  works,  they  are  all 
very  scenic  in  execution,  there  are  great  differences  in  their  de- 
grees of  finish;  and,  curiously  enough,  some  on  the  ceilings  and 
others  in  the  darkest  places  in  the  lower  room  are  very  nearly 
finished  pictures,  while  the  Agony  in  the  Garden,”  whieh  is  in 
one  of  the  best  lights  in  the  upper  room,  appears  to  have  been 
painted  in  a couple  of  hours  with  a broom  for  a brush. 

For  the  traveller’s  greater  convenience,  I shall  give  a rude 
plan  of  the  arrangement,  and  list  of  the  subjects,  of  each  group 
of  pictures  before  examining  them  in  detail. 


rEXETlAX  INDEX. 


First  Grouji.  On  the  walls  of  the  room  on  the  ground  floor. 


9 


I 


8 


1.  Annunciation. 

2.  Adoration  of  Magi. 

3.  Flight  into  Egypt. 

4.  Massacre  of  Innocents. 


5.  The  Magdalen. 

6.  St.  Mary  of  Egypt. 

7.  Circumcision. 

8.  Assumption  of  Virgin. 


At  the  turn  of  the  stairs  leading  to  the  upper  room: 
9.  Visitation. 


1.  The  Annunciation,  This,  which  first  strikes  the  eye,  is  a • 
very  just  representative  of  the  whole  group,  theexecution'heing 
carried  to  the  utmost  limits  of  boldness  consistent  with  com- 
pletion. It  is  a well-known  picture,  and  need  not  therefore  be  ] 
specially  described,  but  one  or  two  points  in  it  require  notice.  ' j 
The  face  of  the  Virgin  is  very  disagreeable  to  the  spectator  from  \ 
below,  giving  the  idea  of  a woman  about  thirty,  Avho  had  never  ^ 
been  handsome.  If  the  face  is  untouched,  it  is  the  only  in-  | 

stance  I have  ever  seen  of  Tintoret’s  failing  in  an  intended  ’ 

effect,  for,  when  seen  near,  the  face  is  comely  and  youthful,  and 
expresses  only  surprise,  instead  of  the  pain  and  fear  of  which ' 
it  bears  the  aspect  in  the  distance.  I could  not  get  near  enough 
to  see  whether  it  had  been  retouched.  It  looks  like  Tintoret's  *: 
work,  though  rather  hard;  but,  as  there  are  unquestionable  5- 
marks  in  the  retouching  of  this  picture,  it  is  possible  that  some  % 
slight  restoration  of  lines  supposed  to  be  faded,  entirelv  alter  jR 


BOCCO,  SCUOLA  DI  SAK. 


387 


the  distant  expression  of  the  face.  One  of  the  evident  pieces 
of  repainting  is  the  scarlet  of  the  Madonna’s  lap,  which  is 
heavy  and  lifeless.  A far  more  injurious  one  is  the  strip  of  sky 
seen  through  the  doorway  by  which  the  angel  enters,  which  has 
originally  been  of  the  deep  golden  color  of  the  distance  on  the 
left,  and  which  the  blundering  restorer  has  daubed  over  with 
whitish  blue,  so  that  it  looks  like  a bit  of  the  wall;  luckily 
he  has  not  touched  the  outlines  of  the  angel’s  black  wings,  on 
which  the  whole  expression  of  the  picture  depends.  This 
angel  and  the  group  of  small  cherubs  above  form  a great  swing- 
ing chain,  of  which  the  dove  representing  the  Holy  Spirit 
forms  the  bend.  The  angels  in  their  flight  seem  to  be  attach- 
ed to  this  as  the  train  of  fire  is  to  a rocket;  all  of  them  appear- 
ing to  have  swooped  down  with  the  swiftness  of  a falling  star. 

2.  Adoration  of  the  Magi,  The  most  finished  picture  in  the 
Scuola,  except  the  Crucifixion,”  and  perhaps  the  most  de- 
lightful of  the  whole.  It  unites  every  source  of  pleasure  that  a 
picture  can  possess:  the  highest  elevation  of  principal  subject, 
mixed  with  the  lowest  detail  of  picturesque  incident ; the  dig- 
nity of  the  highest  ranks  of  men,  opposed  to  the  simplicity  of 
the  lowest ; the  quietness  and  serenity  of  an  incident  in  cot- 
tage life,  contrasted  with  the  turbulence  of  troops  of  horsemen 
and  the  spiritual  power  of  angels.  The  placing  of  the  two 
doves  as  principal  points  of  light  in  the  front  of  the  picture, 
in  order  to  remind  the  spectator  of  the  poverty  of  the  mother 
whose  child  is  receiving  the  offerings  and  adoration  of  tliree 
monarclis,  is  one  of  Tintoret’s  master  touches  ; the  whole 
scene,  indeed,  is  conceived  in  his  happiest  manner.  ISTothing 
can  be  at  once  more  humble  or  more  dignified  than  the  bearing 
of  the  kings ; and  there  is  a sweet  reality  given  to  the  whole 
incident  by  the  Madonna’s  stooping  forward  and  lifting  her 
hand  in  admiration  of  the  vase  of  gold  which  has  been  set 
before  the  Christ,  though  she  does  so  with  such  gentleness  and 
quietness  that  her  dignity  is  not  in  the  least  injured  by  the 
simplicity  of  the  action.  As  if  to  illustrate  the  means  by  which 
the  Wise  men  were  brought  from  the  East,  the  whole  pietui’e 
is  nothing  but  a large  star,  of  which  Christ  is  the  centre  ; all 
the  figures,  even  the  timbers  of  the  roof,  radiate  from  the  small 
bright  figure  on  which  tlie  comitenances  of  the  fiying  angels 


838 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


are  bent,  the  star  itself,  gleaming  through  the  timbers  above, 
being  quite  subordinate.  The  composition  would  almost  be 
too  artificial  were  it  not  broken  by  tlie  luminous  distance  where 
the  troop  of  horsemen  are  waiting  for  the  kings.  These,  with 
a dog  running  at  full  speed,  at  once  interrupt  the  symmetry  of 
the  lines,  and  form  a point  of  relief  from  the  over  concentra-  j 
tion  of  all  the  rest  of  the  action.  | 

3.  Flight  into  Egypt,  One  of  the  principal  figures  here  is 
the  donkey.  I have  never  seen  any  of  the  nobler  animals — 
lion,  or  leoj)ard,  or  horse,  or  dragon — made  so  sublime  as  this 
quiet  head  of  the  domestic  ass,  chiefly  owing  to  the  grand  ' 
motion  in  the  nostril  and  writhing  in  the  ears.  The  space  of 
the  picture  is  chiefly  occupied  by  lovely  landscape,  and  the 
Madonna  and  St.  Joseph  are  pacing  their  way  along  a shady 
path  upon  the  banks  of  a river  at  the  side  of  the  picture.  I 
had  not  any  conception,  until  I got  near,  how  much  pains  had 
been  taken  with  the  Virgin’s  head;  its  expression  is  as  sweet 
and  as  intense  as  that  of  any  of  Eaffaelle’s,  its  reality  far 
greater.  The  painter  seems  to  have  intended  that  everything 
should  be  subordinate  to  the  beauty  of  this  single  head;  and 
the  work  is  a wonderful  proof  of  the  way  in  which  a vast  field 

of  canvas  may  be  made  conducive  to  the  interest  of  a single 
figure.  This  is  partly  accomplished  by  slightness  of  painting, 
so  that  on  close  examination,  while  there  is  everything  to  as- 
tonish in  the  masterly  handling  and  purpose,  there  is  not  much 
perfect  or  very  delightful  painting;  in  fact,  the  two  figures  are 
treated  like  the  living  figures  in  a scene  at  the  theatre,  and 
finished  to  j)erfection,  while  the  landscape  is  painted  as  hastily 
as  the  scenes,  and  with  the  same  kind  of  opaque  size  color.  It 
has,  however,  suffered  as  much  as  any  of  the  series,  and  it  is 
hardly  fair  to  judge  of  its  tones  and  colors  in  its  present  state. 

4.  Massacre  of  the  Innocents,  The  following  account  of  this 

picture,  given  in  Modern  Painters,”  maybe  useful  to  the 
traveller,  and  is  therefore  here  repeated.  have  before  . 

alluded  to  the  painfulness  of  Eaffaelle’s  treatment  of  the  Mas- 
sacre of  the  Innocents.  Fuseli  affirms  of  it,  that,  ^ in  dramatic 
gradation  he  disclosed  all  the  mother  through  every  image  of 
pity  and  terror.’  If  this  be  so,  I think  the  philosophical  sjurit 
has  prevailed  over  the  imaginative.  The  imagination  never 


IIOCCO,  SCUOLA  DI  SAX. 


331) 


errs;  it  sees  all  that  is^  and  all  the  relations  and  bearings  of  it* 
but  it  would  not  have  confused  the  mortal  frenzy  of  maternal 
terror,  with  various  development  of  maternal  character.  Fear, 
rage,  and  agony,  at  their  utmost  pitch,  sweep  away  all  charac- 
ter: humanity  itself  would  be  lost  in  maternity,  the  woman 
would  become  the  mere  personification  of  animal  fury  or  fear. 
For  this  reason  all  the  ordinary  representations  of  this  subject 
are,  I think,  false  and  cold:  the  artist  has  not  heard  the 
shrieks,  nor  mingled  with  the  fugitives ; he  has  sat  down  in  his 
study  to  convulse  features  methodically,  and  philosophize  over 
insanity.  Not  so  Tintoret.  Knowing,  or  feeling,  that  the 
expression  of  the  human  face  was,  in  such  circumstances,  not 
to  be  rendered,  and  that  the  effort  could  only  end  in  an 
ugly  falsehood,  he  denies  himself  all  aid  from  the  features,  he 
feels  that  if  he  is  to  place  himself  or  us  in  the  midst  of  that 
maddejied  multitude,  there  can  be  no  time  allowed  for  watch- 
ing expression.  Still  less  does  he  depend  on  details  of  murder 
or  ghastliness  of  death  ; there  is  no  blood,  no  stabbing  or  cut- 
ting,. but  there  is  an  awful  substitute  for  these  in  the  chiaros- 
curo. The  scene  is  the  outer  vestibule  of  a palace,  the  slij)- 
pery  marble  floor  is  fearfully  barred  across  by  sanguine  shadows, 
so  that  our  eyes  seem  to  become  bloodshot  and  strained  with 
strange  horror  and  deadly  vision  ; a lake  of  life  before  them, 
like  the  burning  seen  of  the  doomed  Moabite  on  the  water 
that  came  by  the  way  of  Edom  : a huge  flight  of  stairs,  with- 
out parapet,  descends  on  the  left ; down  this  rush  a crowd  of 
women  mixed  with  the  murderers  ; the  child  in  the  arms  of 
one  has  been  seized  by  the  limbs,  she  hurls  herself  over  the 
^dge,  and  falls  head  downmost^  dragging  the  child  out  of  the 
grasp  ly  her  loeight ; — she  will  be  dashed  dead  in  a second  : — 
close  to  us  is  the  great  struggle  ; a heap  of  the  mothers,  en- 
tangled in  one  mortal  writhe  with  each  other  and  the  swords  ; 
one  of  the  murderers  dashed  down  and  crushed  beneath  them, 
the  sword  of  another  caught  by  the  blade  and  dragged  at  by  a 
woman’s  naked  hand  ; the  youngest  and  fairest  of  the  women, 
her  child  just  torn  away  from  a death  grasp,  and  clasped  to 
her  breast  with  the  grip  of  a steel  vice,  falls  backwards,  help- 
less over  the  heap,  right  on  the  sword  points  ; all  knit  together 
and  hurled  down  in  one  hopeless,  frenzied,  furious  abandon- 


340 


VENETIAK  IKDEX. 


meiit  of  body  and  soul  in  the  effort  to  save.  Far  back,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs,  there  is  something  in  the  shadow  like  a 
heap  of  clothes.  It  is  a woman,  sitting  quiet, — quite  quiet, — 
still  as  any  stone  ; she  looks  down  steadfastly  on  her  dead 
child,  laid  along  on  the  floor  before  her,  and  her  hand  is 
pressed  softly  uj^on  her  brow.” 

I have  nothing  to  add  to  the  above  description  of  this  pic« 
ture,  except  that  I believe  there  may  have  been  some  change 
in  the  color  of  the  shadow  that  crosses  the  }:)avement.  The 
chequers  of  the  pavements  are,  in  the  light,  golden  white  and 
pale  grey  ; in  the  shadow,  red  and  dark  grey,  the  white  in  the 
sunshine  becoming  red  in  the  shadow.  I formerly  supposed 
that  this  was  meant  to  give  greater  horror  to  the  scene,  and  it 
is  very  like  Tintoret  if  it  be  so  ; but  there  is  a strangeness  and 
discordance  in  it  which  makes  me  suspect  the  colors  may  have 
changed. 

5.  The  Magdalen,  This  and  the  picture  opposite  to  it,  St. 
Mary  of  Egypt,”  have  been  painted  to  fill  up  narrow  spaces  be- 
tween the  windows  which  were  not  large  enough  to  receive 
compositions,  and  yet  in  which  single  figures  would  have  looked 
awkwardly  thrust  into  the  corner.  Tintoret  has  made  these 
spaces  as  large  as  possible  by  filling  them  with  landscapes, 
which  are  rendered  interesting  by  the  introduction  of  single 
figures  of  very  small  size.  He  has  not,  hoAvever,  considered 
his  task,  of  making  a small  piece  of  wainscot  look  like  a large 
one,  worth  the  stretch  of  his  powers,  and  has  painted  these  two 
landscapes  just  as  carelessly  and  as  fast  as  an  ujfiiolsterer’s  jour- 
neyman finishing  a room  at  a railroad  hotel.  The  color  is  for 
the  most  part  opaque,  and  dashed  or  scrawled  on  in  the  man- 
ner of  a scene-painter  ; and  as  during  the  whole  morning  the 
sun  shines  upon  the  one  picture,  and  during  the  afternoon 
upon  the  other,  hues,  which  were  originally  thin  and  imper- 
fect, are  now  dried  in  many  places  into  mere  dirt  upon  the 
canvas.  With  all  these  drawbacks  the  pictures  are  of  very  j 
high  interest,  for  although,  as  I said,  hastily  and  carelessly,  A 
tliey  are  not  languidly  painted  ; on  the  contrary,  he  has  been  m 
in  liis  hottest  and  grandest  temper;  and  in  this  first  one  ■ 
('^Magdalen”)  the  laurel  tree,  with  its  leaves  driven  hither  M 
and  thither  among  flakes  of  fiery  cloud,  has  been  probably  one  9 


IIOCCO,  SCUOLA  BI  SAK. 


341 


of  the  greatest  aclheyements  that  his  hand  performed  in  land- 
scape : its  roots  are  entangled  in  underwood  ; of  which  every 
leaf  seems  to  be  articulated,  yet  all  is  as  wild  as  if  it  had  grown 
there  instead  of  having  been  painted  ; there  has  been  a moun- 
tain distance,  too,  and  a sky  of  stormy  light,  of  which  I infi- 
nitely regret  the  loss,  for  though  its  masses  of  light  are  still 
discernible,  its  variety  of  hue  is  all  sunk  into  a withered  brown. 
There  is  a curious  piece  of  execution  in  the  striking  of  the 
Jight  u])on  a brook  which  runs  under  the  roots  of  the  laurel  in 
the  foreground  : these  roots  are  traced  in  shadow  against  the 
bright  surface  of  the  water  ; another  painter  would  have  drawn 
the  light  first,  and  drawn  the  dark  roots  over  it.  Tintoret  has 
laid  in  a brown  ground  which  he  has  left  for  the  roots,  and 
painted  the  water  through  their  interstices  with  a few  mighty 
rolls  of  his  brush  laden  with  white. 

G.  St.  Mary  of  Egy^d.  This  picture  differs  but  little  in  the 
plan,  from  the  one  opposite,  except  that  St.  Mary  has  her  back 
towards  us,  and  the  Magdalen  her  face,  and  that  the  tree  on 
the  other  side  of  the  brook  is  a palm  instead  of  a laurel.  The 
brook  ( J ordan  ?)  is,  however,  here  much  more  important ; and 
the  Avatcr  painting  is  exceedingly  fine.  Of  all  painters  that  I 
know,  ill  old  times,  Tintoret  is  the  fondest  of  running  water ; 
there  was  a sort  of  sympathy  between  it  and  his  own  impetu- 
ous spirit.  The  rest  of  the  landscape  is  not  of  much  interest, 
except  so  far  as  it  is  pleasant  to  see  trunks  of  trees  drawn  by 
single  strokes  of  the  brush. 

7.  The  Circumcision  of  Christ.  The  custode  has  some  story 
about  this  picture  having  been  painted  in  imitation  of  Paul 
Veronese.  I much  doubt  if  Tintoret  ever  imitated  any  body  ; 
but  this  jiicture  is  the  expression  of  his  perception  of  what 
Veronese  delighted  in,  the  nobility  that  there  may  be  in  mere] 
golden  tissue  and  colored  drapery.  It  is,  in  fact,  a picture  of 
tlie  moral  power  of  gold  and  color ; and  the  chief  use  of  the 
attendant  priest  is  to  support  upon  his  shoulders  the  crimson 
robe,  with  its  square  tablets  of  black  and  gold ; and  yet  noth- 
ing is  withdrawn  from  the  interest  or  dignity  of  the  scene. 
Tintoret  Ims  taken  immense  pains  with  the  head  of  the  high- 
priest.  I know  not  any  existing  old  man’s  head  so  exquisitely 
tender,  or  so  noble  in  its  lines.  He  receives  the  Infant  Christ 


342 


VENETIAN  INDEX. 


in  Ills  arms  kneeling,  and  looking  down  upon  the  Child  with 
infinite  veneration  and  love  ; and  the  hashing  of  golden  rays 
from  its  head  is  made  the  centre  of  light,  and  all  interest. 

The  whole  picture  is  like  a golden  charger  to  receive  the 
Child ; the  priest’s  dress  is  held  up  behind  him,  that  it  may 
occupy  larger  space  ; the  tables  and  fioor  are  covered  with 
chequer- work  ; the  shadows  of  the  temple  are  filled  with  brazen 
lamps  ; and  above  all  are  hung  masses  of  curtains,  whose  crim- 
son folds  are  strewn  over  with  golden  fiakes.  Next  to  the 

Adoration  of  the  Magi”  this  picture  is  the  most  laboriously 
finished  of  the  Scuola  di  San  Eocco,  and  it  is  unquestionably 
the  highest  existing  type  of  the  sublimity  which  may  be  thrown 
into  the  treatment  of  accessaries  of  dress  and  decoration. 

8.  Assumption  of  the  Virgin,  On  the  tablet  or  panel  of 
stone  which  forms  the  side  of  the  tomb  out  of  which  the  Ma- 
donna rises,  is  this  inscription,  in  large  letters,  EEST.  AN- 
TONIUS  FLOEIAN,  1834.  Exactly  in  proj)ortion  to  a 
man’s  idiocy,  is  always  the  size  of  the  letters  in  which  he 
writes  his  name  on  the  picture  that  he  sj)oils.  The  old  mo- 
saicists  in  St.  Mark’s  have  not,  in  a single  instance,  as  far  as  I 
know,  signed  their  names  ; but  the  sjiectator  who  wishes  to  ' 
know  who  destroyed  the  effect  of  the  nave,  may  see  his  name 
inscribed,  twice  over,  in  letters  half  a foot  high,  Baktolomeo 
Bozza.  I have  never  seen  Tintoret’s  name  signed,  except  in  ' 
the  great  Crucifixion  but  this  Antony  Elorian,  I have  no 
doubt,  repainted  the  whole  side  of  the  tomb  that  he  might  put 
his  name  on  it.  The  picture  is,  of  course,  ruined  wherever  he 
touched  it ; that  is  to  say,  half  over  ; the  circle  of  cherubs  in 
the  sky  is' still  pure  ; and  the  design  of  the  great  painter  is 
palpable  enough  yet  in  the  grand  flight  of  the  horizontal  angel, 

on  whom  the  Madonna  half  leans  as  she  ascends.  It  has  been 
a noble  picture,  and  is  a grievous  loss  ; but,  happily,  there  arc 
so  many  pure  ones,  that  we  need  not  spend  time  in  gleaning 
treasures  out  of  the  ruins  of  this.  ' • 

9.  Visitation,  A small  picture,  painted  in  his  very  best  i 
manner ; exquisite  in  its  simplicity,  unrivalled  in  vigor,  well  S 
preserved,  and,  as  a piece  of  painting,  certainly  one  of  the  9 
most  precious  in  Venice.  Of  course  it  does  not  show  any  oi  9 
his  high  inventive  powers  ; nor  can  a picture  of  four  middle-  9 


Rocco,  scugxa  SA:sr. 


343 


sized  figures  be  made  a proper  subject  of  comparison  with  large 
canvases  containing  forty  or  fifty ; but  it  is,  for  this  very 
reason,  painted  with  such  perfect  ease,  and  yet  with  no  slack- 
ness  either  of  affection  or  power,  that  there  is  no  picture  that 
I covet  so  much.  It  is,  besides,  altogether  free  from  the 
Eenaissance  taint  of  dramatic  effect.  The  gestures  are  as  sim- 
ple and  natural  as  Giotto’s,  only  expressed  by  grander  lines, 
such  as  none  but  Tintoret  ever  reached.  The  draperies  are 
dark,  relieved  against  a light  sky,  the  horizon  being  exces- 
sively low,  and  the  outlines  of  the  drapery  so  severe,  that  the 
intervals  between  the  figures  look  like  ravines  between  great 
rocks,  and  have  all  the  sublimity  of  an  Alpine  valley  at  twi- 
light. This  precious  picture  is  hung  about  thirty  feet  above 
the  eye,  but  by  looking  at  it  in  a strong  light,  it  is  discover- 
able that  the  Saint  Elizabeth  is  dressed  in  green  and  crimson, 
the  Virgin  in  the  peculiar  red  which  all  great  colorists  de- 
light in — a sort  of  glowing  brick-color  or  brownish  scarlet,  op- 
posed to  rich  golden  brownish  black ; and  both  have  white 
kerchiefs,  or  drapery,  thrown  over  their  shoulders.  Zacharias 
leans  on  his  staff  behind  them  in  a black  dress  with  white 
sleeves.  The  stroke  of  brilliant  white  light,  which  outlines 
the  knee  of  Saint  Elizabeth,  is  a curious  instance  of  the  habit 
of  the  painter  to  relieve  his  dark  forms  by  a sort  of  halo  of 
more  vivid  light,  which,  until  lately,  one  would  have  been  apt 
to  suppose  a somewhat  artificial  and  unjustifiable  means  of 
effect.  The  daguerreotype  has  shown,  what  the  naked  eye 
never  could,  that  the  instinct  of  the  great  painter  was  true, 
and  that  there  is  actually  such  a sudden  and  sharp  line  of  light 
round  the  edges  of  dark  objects  relieved  by  luminous  space. 

Opposite  this  picture  is  a most  precious  Titian,  the  An- 
nunciation,^’ full  of  grace  and  beauty.  I think  the  Madonna 
one  of  the  sweetest  figui’es  he  ever  painted.  But  if  the  travel- 
ler has  entered  at  all  into  the  spirit  of  Tintoret,  he  will  imme- 
diately feel  the  comparative  feebleness  and  conventionality  of 
the  Titian.  Note  especially  the  mean  and  petty  folds  of  the 
angel’s  drapery,  and  compare  them  with  the  draperies  of  the 
opposite  picture.  Tlie  larger  pictures  at  the  sides  of  the  stairs 
by  Zanchi  and  Negri,  are  utterly  worthless, 


344 


YBNETlAl^  IKDEX. 


Second  Group.  On  the  walls  of  the  upper  room. 


10.  Adoration  of  Shepherds. 

11.  Baptism. 

12.  Eesurrection. 

13.  Agony  in  Garden. 

14.  Last  Supper. 

15.  Altar  Piece:  St.  Eocco. 

16.  Miracle  of  Loaves. 

10.  The  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds.  This  picture  com- 
mences the  series  of  the  upper  room,  which,  as  already  no- 
ticed, is  painted  with  far  less  care  than  that  of  the  lower.  It 
is  one  of  the  painter’s  inconceivable  caprices  tliat  the  only  ■ 
canvases  that  are  in  good  light  should  be  covered  in  this  hasty  ^ 
manner,  Avhile  those  in  the  dungeon  below,  and  on  the  ceiling  ; 
above,  are  all  highly  labored.  It  is,  however,  just  possible  that 
the  covering  of  these  walls  may  have  been  an  after-thought,  ; 

when  he  had  got  tired  of  his  work.  They  are  also,  for  the  most  j 

part,  illustrative  of  a principle  of  which  I am  more  and  more 
convinced  every  day,  that  historical  and  figure  pieces  ought 
not  to  be  made  vehicles  for  effects  of  light.  The  light  which  ' 
is  fit  for  a historical  picture  is  that  tempered  semi-sun  slime 
of  which,  in  general,  the  works  of  Titian  are  the  best  exam-  ’ 
pies,  and  of  which  the  picture  we  have  just  i)asscd,  Tlie  Vis-  ^ 
itation,”  is  a perfect  example  from  the  hand  of  one  greatei 
than  Titian;  so  also  the  three  Crucifixions”  of  San  Eocco, 

San  Cassano,  and  St.  John  and  Paul;  the  Adoration  of  the 


/7 


17.  Eesurrection  of  Lazaiais. 

18.  Ascension. 

19.  Pool  of  Bethesda. 

20.  Temptation. 

21.  St.  Eocco. 

22.  St.  Sebastian. 


ROCCO,  SCUOLA  DI  SAK. 


345 


Magi  here ; and,  in  general,  the  finest  works  of  the  master; 
but  Tintoret  was  not  a man  to  work  in  any  formal  or  syste- 
matic manner;  and,  exactly  like  Turner,  we  find  him  recording 
every  effect  which  Nature  herself  displays.  Still  he  seems  to 
regard  the  pictures  which  deviate  from  the  great  general  prin- 
ciple of  colorists  rather  as  tours  de  force”  than  as  sources 
of  pleasure;  and  I do  not  think  there  is  any  instance  of  his 
having  worked  out  one  of  these  tricky  pictures  with  thorough 
affection,  except  only  in  the  case  of  the  Marriage  of  Cana.” 
By  tricky  pictures,  I mean  those  which  display  light  entering 
in  different  directions,  and  attract  the  eye  to  the  effects  rather 
than  to  the  figure  which  displays  them.  Of  this  treatment, 
we  have  already  had  a marvellous  instance  in  the  candle- 
light picture  of  the  ^^Last  Supper”  in  San  Giorgio  Maggiore. 
This  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds”  has  probably  been  nearly 
as  wonderful  when  first  painted:  the  Madonna  is  seated  on  a 
kind  of  hammock  floor  made  of  ro])e  netting,  covered  with 
straw;  it  divides  the  picture  into  two  stories,  of  which  the 
uppermost  contains  the  Virgin,  with  two  women  who  are 
adoring  Christ,  and  shows  liglit  entering  from  above  through 
the  loose  timbers  of  the  roof  of  the  stable,  as  well  as  through 
the  bars  of  a square  window;  the  lower  division  shows  this 
light  falling  behind  the  netting  upon  the  stable  floor,  oc- 
cupied by  a cock  and  a cow,  and  against  this  light  are  re- 
lieved the  figures  of  the  shepherds,  for  the  most  part  in 
demi-tint,  but  Avith  flakes  of  more  vigorous  sunshine  falling 
here  and  there  upon  them  from  above.  The  optical  illusion 
has  originally  been  as  perfect  as  one  of  Hunt’s  best  interiors; 
but  it  is  most  curious  that  no  part  of  the  work  seems  to  have 
been  taken  any  pleasure  in  by  the  painter;  it  is  all  by  his  hand, 
but  it  looks  as  if  he  had  been  bent  only  on  getting  over  the 
ground.  It  is  literally  a piece  of  scene-painting,  and  is  exactly 
what  Ave  might  fancy  Tintoret  to  have  done,  had  he  been 
forced  to  paint  scenes  at  a small  theatre  at  a shilling  a day. 
I cannot  think  that  the  whole  canvas,  though  fourteen  feet 
high  and  ten  wide,  or  thereabouts,  could  have  taken  him  more 
than  a couple  of  days  to  finish:  and  it  is  very  noticeable  that 
exactly  in  proportion  to  the  brilliant  effects  of  liglit  is  the 
coarseness  of  ,tha  execution,  for  fhe  figures  of  the  Madonna 
and  of  the  Avomen  abovc^  which  are  not  in  any  strong  effeoC 


346 


YENETIA]Sr  IKDEX. 


are  painted  with  some  care,  while  the  shepherds  and  the  cow 
are  alike  slovenly;  and  the  latter,  which  is  in  full  sunshine,  ts 
recognizable  for  a cow  more  by  its  size  and  that  of  its  horns, 
than  by  any  care  given  to  its  form.  It  is  interesting  to  con- 
trast this  slovenly  and  mean  sketch  with  the  ass’s  head  in  the 
Flight  into  Egypt,”  on  which  the  painter  exerted  his  full 
power;  as  an  effect  of  light,  however,  the  work  is,  of  course, 
most  interesting.  One  point  in  the  treatment  is  especially 
noticeable:  there  is  a peacock  in  the  rack  beyond  the  cow;  and 
under  other  circumstances,  one  cannot  doubt  that  Tintoret 
would  have  liked  a peacock  in  full  color,  and  would  have 
painted  it  green  and  blue  with  great  satisfaction.  It  is  sacri- 
ficed to  the  light,  however,  and  is  painted  in  warm  grey,  with 
a dim  eye  or  two  in  the  tail:  this  process  is  exactly  analogous 
to  Turner’s  taking  the  colors  out  of  the  flags  of  his  ships  in 
the  Gosport.”  Another  striking  point  is  the  litter  with 
which  the  whole  picture  is  filled  in  order  more  to  confuse  the 
eye:  there  is  straw  sticking  from  the  roof,  straw  all  over  the 
hammock  floor,  and  straw  struggling  hither  and  thither  all 
over  the  floor  itself;  and,  to  add  to  the  confusion,  the  glory 
around  the  head  of  the  infant,  instead  of  being  united  and 
serene,  is  broken  into  little  bits,  and  is  like  a glory  of  chopped 
straw.  But  the  most  curious  thing,  after  all,  is  the  want  of 
delight  in  any  of  the  principal  figures,  and  the  comparative 
meanness  and  commonplaceness  of  even  the  folds  of  the  drap- 
ery. It  seems  as  if  Tintoret  had  determined  to  make  the 
shepherds  as  uninteresting  as  possible;  but  one  does  not  see 
why  their  very  clothes  should  be  ill  painted,  and  their  disposi- 
tion unpicturesque.  I believe,  however,  though  it  never  struck 
me  until  I had  examined  this  picture,  that  this  is  one  of  the 
painter’s  fixed  principles:  he  does  not,  with  German  sentimen- 
tality, make  shepherds  and  peasants  graceful  or  sublime,  but 
he  purposely  vulgarizes  them,  not  by  making  their  actions  or 
their  faces  boorish  or  disagreeable,  but  rather  by  painting  them 
ill,  and  composing  their  draperies  tamely.  As  far  as  I recol- 
lect at  present,  the  principle  is  universal  with  him;  exactly  in 
proportion  to  the  dignity  of  character  is  the  beauty  of  the 
painting.  He  will  not  put  out  his  strength  upon  any  man 
belonging  to  tlte  lower  classes;  and,  in  order  to  know  what  the 


EOCCO,  SCUOLA  DI  SAN. 


34 


painter  is,  one  must  see  him  at  work  on  a king,  a senator,  or  a 
saint.  The  curious  connexion  of  this  with  the  aristocratic 
tendencies  of  the  Venetian  nation,  when  we  remember  that 
Tintoret  was  the  greatest  man  whom  that  nation  produced,  may 
become  very  interesting,  if  followed  out.  I forgot  to  note  that, 
though  the  peacock  is  painted  with  great  regardlessness  of 
color,  there  is  a feature  in  it  which  no  common  painter  would 
have  observed, — the  peculiar  flatness  of  the  back,  and  undula- 
tion of  the  shoulders:  the  bird’s  body  is  all  there,  though  its 
feathers  are  a good  deal  neglected;  and  the  same  thing  is 
noticeable  in  a cock  who  is  pecking  among  the  straw  near  the 
spectator,  though  in  other  respects  a shabby  cock  enough. 
The  fact  is,  I believe,  he  had  made  his  shepherds  so  common- 
jdace  that  he  dare  not  paint  his  animals  well,  otherwise  one 
would  have  looked  at  nothing  in  the  picture  but  the  peacock, 
cock,  and  cow.  I cannot  tell  what  the  sheplierds  are  offering; 
they  look  like  milk  bowls,  but  they  are  awkwardly  held  up^ 
with  such  twistings  of  body  as  would  have  certainly  spilt  the 
milk.  A woman  in  front  has  a basket  of  eggs;  but  this  I 
imagine  to  be  merely  to  keep  up  the  rustic  character  of  the 
scene,  and  not  part  of  the  shepherd’s  offerings. 

11.  Baptism,  There  is  more  of  the  true  picture  quality  in 
this  work  than  in  the  former  one,  but  still  very  little  appear- 
ance of  enjoyment  or  care.  The  color  is  for  the  most  part 
grey  and  uninteresting,  and  the  figures  are  thin  and  meagre 
in  form,  and  slightly  painted;  so  much  so,  that  of  the  nine- 
teen figures  in  the  distance,  about  a dozen  are  hardly  worth 
calling  figures,  and  the  rest  are  so  sketched  and  flourished  in 
that  one  can  hardly  tell  which  is  which.  There  is  one  point 
about  it  very  interesting  to  a landscape  painter:  the  river  is 
seen  far  into  the  distance,  with  a piece  of  copse  bordering  it; 
the  sky  beyond  is  dark,  but  the  water  nevertheless  receives  a 
brilliant  reflection  from  some  unseen  rent  in  the  clouds,  so 
brilliant,  that  when  I was  first  at  Venice,  not  being  accustomed 
to  Tintoret’s  slight  execution,  or  to  see  pictures  so  much 
injured,  I took  this  piece  of  water  for  a piece  of  sky.  The 
effect  as  Tintoret  has  arranged  it,  is  indeed  soinewlmt  un- 
natural, but  it  is  valuable  as  showing  his  recognition  of  a 
principle  unknown  to  half  the  historical  painters  of  tlie  present 


348 


VEKETIAK  INDEX. 


day, — that  the  reflection  seen  in  the  water  is  totally  different 
from  the  object  seen  above  it,  and  that  it  is  very  possible  to 
have  a bright  light  in  reflection  where  there  appears  nothing 
but  darkness  to  be  reflected.  The  clouds  in  the  sky  itself  are 
round,  heavy,  and  lightless,  and  in  a great  degree  spoil  what 
would  otherwise  be  a fine  landscajie  distance.  Behind  the 
rocks  on  the  right,  a single  head  is  seen,  with  a collar  on  the 
shoulders : it  seems  to  be  intended  for  a portrait  of  some  per- 
son connected  with  the  picture. 

12.  Resurrection,  Another  of  the  ^^effect  of  light  ’’  pictures, 
and  not  a very  striking  one,  the  best  part  of  it  being  the  two 
distant  figures  of  the  Maries  seen  in  the  dawn  of  the  morning. 
The  conception  of  the  Eesurrection  itself  is  characteristic  of 
the  worst  points  of  Tintoret.  His  impetuosity  is  here  in 
the  wrong  place;  ^Christ  bursts  out  of  the  rock  like  a thunder- 
bolt, and  the  angels  themselves  seem  likely  to  be  crushed 
under  the  rent  stones  of  the  tomb.  Had  the  figure  of  Christ 
been  sublime,  this  conception  might  have  been  accepted;  but, 
on  the  contrary,  it  is  weak,  mean,  and  painful;  and  the  whole 
picture  is  languidly  or  roughly  painted,  except  only  the  fig- 
tree  at  the  top  of  the  rock,  which,  by  a curious  caprice,  is  not 
only  drawn  in  the  painter’s  best  manner,  but  has^  golden  ribs 
to  all  its  leaves,  making  it  look  like  one  of  the  beautiful 
crossed  or  chequered  patterns,  of  which  he  is  so  fond  in  his 
dresses;  the  leaves  themselves  being  a dark  olive  brown. 

13.  The  Agony  in  the  Garden.  I cannot  at  present  under- 
stand the  order  of  these  subjects;  but  they  may  have  been  mis- 
placed. This,  of  all  the  San  Kocco  pictures,  is  the  most 
hastily  painted,  but  it  is  not,  like  those  we  have  been  passing, 
clodly  painted;  it  seems  to  have  been  executed  altogether  with 
a hearth-broom,  and  in  a few  hours.  It  is  another  of  the 

effects,”  and  a very  curious  one;  the  Angel  who  bears  the 
cup  to  Christ  is  surrounded  by  a red  halo;  yet  the  light  which 
falls  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  sleeping  disciples,  and  upon  the 
leaves  of  the  olive-trees,  is  cool  and  silvery,  while  the  troop 
coming  up  to  seize  Christ  are  seen  by  torch-light.  Judas,  who 
is  the  second  figure,  points  to  Christ,  but  turns  his  head  away 
as  he  does  so,  as  unable  to  look  at  him.  This  is  a noble  toucli; 
the  foliage  is  also  exceedingly  fine,  though  what  kind  of  olive- 


^KOCCO^  SCUOLA  DI  SAK. 


349 


tree  bears  such  leaves  I know  not,  each  of  them  being  about 
the  size  of  a man’s  hand.  If  there  be  any  which  bear  such 
foliage,  their  olives  must  be  the  size  of  cocoa-nuts.  This, 
however,  is  true  only  of  the  underwood,  which  is,  perhaps, 
not  meant  for  olive.  There  are  some  taller  trees  at  the  top  of 
the  picture,  whose  leaves  are  of  a more  natural  size.  On 
closely  examining  the  figures  of  the  troops  on  the  left,  I find 
that  the  distant  ones  are  concealed,  all  but  the  limbs,  by  a sort 
of  arch  of  dark  color,  which  is  now  so  injured,  that  I cannot 
tell  whether  it  was  foliage  or  ground:  I suppose  it  to  have 
been  a mass  of  close  foliage,  through  which  the  trooj)  is  break- 
ing its  way;  Judas  rather  showing  them  the  path,  than  actu- 
ally pointing  to  Christ,  as  it  is  written,  Judas,  who  betrayed 
him,  knew  the  place.”  St.  Peter,  as  the  most  zealous  of  the 
three  disciples,  the  only  one  who  was  to  endeavor  to  defend 
his  Master,  is  represented  as  awakening  and  turning  his  head 
toward  the  troop,  while  James  and  John  are  buried  in  pro- 
found slumber,  laid  in  magnificent  languor  among  the  leaves. 
The  picture  is  singularly  impressive,  when  seen  far  enough  off, 
as  an  image  of  thick  forest  gloom  amidst  the  rich  and  tender 
foliage  of  the  South;  the  leaves,  however,  tossing  as  in  dis- 
turbed night  air,  and  the  flickering  of  the  torches,  and  of  the 
branches,  contrasted  with  the  steady  flame  which  from  the 
Angel’s  presence  is  spread  over  the  robes  of  the  disciples. 
The  strangest  feature  in  the  whole  is  that  the  Christ  also  is 
represented  as  sleeping.  The  angel  seems  to  appear  to  him 
in  a dream. 

14.  The  Last  Supim\  A most  unsatisfactory^  picture;  I 
think  about  the  worst  ITk now  of  Tintoret’s,  where  there  is  no 
appearance  of  retouching.  He  always  makes  the  disciples  in 
this  scene  too  vulgar;  they  are  here  not  only  vulgar,  l)ut 
diminutive,  and  Christ  is  at  the  end  of  the  table,  the  smallest 
figure  of  them  all.  The  principal  figures  are  two  mendicants 
sitting  on  steps  in  front;  a kind  of  supporters,  but  I suppose 
intended  to  be  waiting  for  the  fragments;  a dog,  in  still  more 
earnest  expectation,  is  watching  the  movements  of  the  dis- 
ciples, wlio  are  talking  together,  Judas  having  just  gone  out. 
Clirist  is  represented  as  giving  what  one  at  first  supposes  is  the 
sop  to  Judas,  but  as  the  disciple  who  received  it  has  a glory. 


! 


350 


VEKETIAK  IKDEX. 


and  there  are  only  eleven  at  table,  it  is  evidently  the  Sacra- 
mental bread.  The  room  in  which  they  are  assembled  is  a 
sort  of  large  kitchen,  and  the  host  is  seen  employed  at  a 
dresser  in  the  background.  This  picture  has  not  only  been 
originally  poor,  but  is  one  of  those  exposed  all  day  to  the  sun, 
and  is  dried  into  mere  dusty  canvas:  where  there  was  once 
blue,  there  is  now  nothing. 

15.  Saint  Rocco  in  Glory,  One  of  the  worst  order  of  Tin- 
torets,  with  ajoparent-  smoothness  and  finish,  yet  languidly 
painted,  as  if  in  illness  or  fatigue;  very  dark  and  heavy  in 
tone  also;  its  figures,  for  the  most  part,  of  an  awkward  middle 
size,  about  five  feet  high,  and  very  uninteresting.  St.  Eocco 
ascends  to  heaven,  looking  down  upon  a crowd  of  poor  and 
sick  persons  who  are  blessing  and  adoring  him.  One  of  these, 
kneeling  at  the  bottom,  is  very  nearly  a repetition,  though  a 
careless  and  indolent  one,  of  that  of  St.  Stephen,  in  St. 
Giorgio  Maggiore,  and  of  the  central  figure  in  the  Paradise” 
of  the  Ducal  Palace.  It  is  a kind  of  lay  figure,  of  which  he 
seems  to  have  been  fond ; its  clasped  hands  are  here  shockingly 
painted — I should  think  unfinished.  It  forms  the  only  im- 
portant light  at  the  bottom,  relieved  on  a dark  ground;  at  the 
top  of  the  picture,  the  figure  of  St.  Eocco  is  seen  in  shadow 
against  the  light  of  the  sky,  and  all  the  rest  is  in  confused 
shadow.  The  commonplaceness  of -this  composition  is  curiously 
connected  with  the  languor  of  thought  and  touch  throughout 
the  work. 

16.  Miracle  of  the  Loaves,  Hardly  anything  but  a fine 
piece  of  landscape  is  here  left;  it  is  more  exposed  to  the  sun 
than  any  other  picture  in  the  room,  and  its  draperies  having 
been,  in  great  part,  painted  in  blue,  are  now  mere  patches  of 
the  color  of  starch;  the  scene  is  also  very  imperfectly  con- 
ceived. The  twenty-one  figures,  including  Christ  and  his 
Disciples,  very  ill  represent  a crowd  of  seven  thousand;  still 
less  is  the  marvel  of  the  miracle  expressed  by  perfect  ease  and 
rest  of  the  reclining  figures  in  the  foreground,  who  do  not 
so  much  as  look  surprised;  considered  merely  as  reclining 
figures,  and  as  })ieces  of  effect  in  half  light,  they  have  once 
been  fine.  The  landscape,  which  represents  the  slope  of  a 
woody  hill,  has  a very  grand  and  far-away  look.  Behind  it  is  a 


nocco,  SCUOLA  DI  SAK. 


351 


great  space  of  streaky  sky^  almost  prismatic  in  color,  rosy  and 
golden  clouds  covering  up  its  blue,  and  some  fine  vigorous 
trees  thrown  against  it;  painted  in  about  ten  minutes  each, 
however,  by  curly  touches  of  the  brush,  and  looking  rather 
more  like  sea-weed  than  foliage. 

17.  Resurrection  of  Lazarus.  Very  strangely,  and  not  im- 
pressively conceived.  Christ  is  half  reclining,  half  sitting,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  picture,  while  Lazarus  is  disencumbered  of 
his  grave-clothes  at  the  top  of  it;  the  scene  being  the  side  of  a 
rocky  hill,  and  the  mouth  of  the  tomb  jorobably  once  visible 
in  the  shadow  on  the  left;  but  all  that  is  now  discernible  is  a 
man  having  his  limbs  unbound,  as  if  Christ  were  merely  order- 
ing a prisoner  to  be  loosed.  There  appears  neither  awe  nor 
agitation,  nor  even  much  astonishment,  in  any  of  the  figures 
of  the  group;  but  the  picture  is  more  vigorous  than  any  of  the 
three  last  mentioned,  and  the  upper  part  of  it  is  quite  worthy 
of  the  master,  especially  its  noble  fig-tree  and  laurel,  which  he 
has  painted,  in  one  of  his  usual  fits  of  caprice,  as  carefully  as 
that  in  the  Eesurrection  of  Christ,’’  opposite.  Perhaps  he 
has  some,  meaning  in  this;  he  may  have  been  thinking  of  the 
verse,  Behold  the  fig-tree,  and  all  the  trees;  when  they  now 
shoot  forth,”  &c.  In  the  present  instance,  the  leaves  are  dark 
only,  and  have  no  golden  veins.  The  uppermost  figures  also 
come  dark  against  the  sky,  and  would  form  a precipitous  mass, 
like  a piece  of  the  rock  itself,  but  that  they  are  broken  in  up- 
on by  one  of  the  limbs  of  Lazarus,  bandaged  and  in  full  light, 
Avhich,  to  my  feeling,  sadly  injures  the  picture,  both  as  a dis- 
agreeable object,  and  a light  in  the  wrong  place.  The  grass 
and  weeds  are,  throughout,  carefully  painted,  but  the  lower 
figures  are  of  little  interest,  and  the  face  of  the  Christ  a griev^ 
oils  failure. 

18.  The  Ascension.  I have  always  admired  this  picture, 
though  it  is  very  slight  and  thin  in  execution,  and  cold  in 
color;  but  it  is  remarkable  for  its  thorough  effect  of  open  air, 
and  for  the  sense  of  motion  and  clashing  in  the  wings  of  the 
Angels  which  sustain  the  Christ:  they  owe  this  effect  a good 
deal  to  the  manner  in  which  they  are  set,  edge  on;  all  seem 
like  sword-blades  cutting  the  air.  It  is  the  most  curious  in 
conception  of  all  the  pictures  in  the  Scuola,  for  it  represents, 


352 


YENETIAK'  IKDEX. 


beneath  the  Ascension,  a kind  of  epitome  of  what  took  place 
before  the  Ascension.  In  the  distance  are  two  Apostles  walk- 
ing, meant,  I suppose,  for  the  two  going  to  Emmaus;  nearer 
are  a group  round  a table,  to  remind  us  of  Christ  appearing  to 
them  as  they  sat  at  meat;,  and  in  the  foreground  is  a single 
reclining  figure  of,  I suppose,  St.  Peter,  because  we  are  told 
that  he  was  seen  of  Cei^has,  then  of  the  twelve:”  but  this  in- 
terpretation is  doubtful;  for  why  should  not  the  vision  by  the 
Lake  of  Tiberias  be  expressed  also?  And  the  strange  thing 
of  all  is  the  scene,  for  Christ  ascended  from  the  Mount  of 
Olives;  but  the  Disciples  are  walking,  and  the  table  is  set,  in  a 
little  marshy  and  grassy  valley,  like  some  of  the  bits  near 
Maison  Neuve  on  the  Jura,  with  a brook  running  through  it, 
so  capitally  expressed,  that  I believe  it  is  this  which  makes  me 
so  fond  of  the  picture.  The  reflections  are  as  scientific  in  the 
diminution,  in  the  image,  of  large  masses  of  bank  above,  as 
any  of  Turner’s,  and  the  marshy  and  reedy  ground  looks  as  if 
one  would  sink  into  it;  but  what  all  this  has  to  do  with  the 
Ascension  I cannot  see.  The  figure  of  Christ  is  not  undigni- 
fied, but  by  no  means  either  interesting  or  sublime. 

19.  Poolof  Betliesda,  I have  no  doubt  the  principal  figures 
have  been  repainted;  but  as  the  colors  are  faded,  and  the  sub- 
ject disgusting,  I have  not  paid  this  picture  sufficient  attention 
to  say  how  far  the  injury  extends;  nor  need  any  one  spend 
time  upon  it,  unless  after  having  first  examined  all  the  other 
Tintorets  in  Venice.  All  the  great  Italian  painters  appear  in- 
sensible to  the  feeling  of  disgust  at  disease;  but  this  study  of 
the  population  of  an  hospital  is  without  any  points  of  contrast, 
and  I wish  Tintoret  had  not  condescended  to  paint  it.  This 
and  the  six  preceding  paintings  have  all  been  uninteresting, — 
I believe  chiefly  owing  to  the  observance  in  them  of  Sir  Joshua’s 
rule  for  the  heroic,  ^^that  drapery  is  to  be  mere  drapery,  and 
not  silk,  nor  satin,  nor  brocade.”  However  wise  such  a rule 
may  be  Avhen  applied  to  works  of  the  purest  religious  art,  it  is 
anything  but  wise  as  respects  works  of  color.  Tintoret  is  never 
quite  himself  unless  he  has  fur  or  velvet,  or  rich  stuff  of  one 
sort  or  the  other,  or  jewels,  or  armor,  or  something  that  he  can 
put  play  of  color  into,  among  his  figures,  and  not  dead  folds  of 
linsey-woolsey;  and  I believe  that  even  the  best  pictures  of 


ROCCO,  SCUOLA  DI  SAK. 


353 


Kalfaelle  and  Angelico  are  not  a little  helped  by  their  hems 
of  robes,  jewelled  crowns,  priests’  copes,  and  so  on;  and  the 
pictures  that  have  nothing  of  this  kind  in  them,  as  for 
instance  the  ^^Transfiguration,”  are  to  my  mind  not  a little 
dull. 

20.  Temptation,  This  picture  singularly  illustrates  what 
has  just  been  observed;  it  owes  great  part  of  its  effect  to  the  lustre 
of  the  jewels  in  the  armlet  of  the  evil  angel,  and  to  the  beauti- 
ful colors  of  his  wings.  These  are  slight  accessaries  apparently, 
but  they  enhance  the  value  of  all  the  rest,  and  they  have  evi- 
dently been  enjoyed  by  the  painter.  The  armlet  is  seen  by 
reflected  light,  its  stones  shining  by  inward  lustre;  this  occult 
fire  being  the  only  hint  given  of  the  real  character  of  the 
Tempter,  who  is  otherways  represented  in  the  form  of  a beauti- 
ful angel,  though  the  face  is  sensual:  we  can  hardly  tell  how 
far  it  was  intended  to  be  therefore  expressive  of  evil;  for  Tin- 
toret’s  good  angels  have  not  always  the  purest  features;  but 
there  is  a peculiar  subtlety  in  this  telling  of  the  story  by  so 
slight  a circumstance  as  the  glare  of  the  jewels  in  the  darkness. 
It  is  curious  to  compare  this  imagination  with  that  of  the 
mosaics  in  St.  Mark’s,  in  which  Satan  is  a black  monster,  with 
horns,  and  head,  and  tail,  complete.  The  whole  of  the  picture 
is  powerfully  and  carefully  painted,  though  very  broadly;  it  is 
a strong  effect  of  light,  and  therefore,  as  usual,  subdued  in 
color.  The  painting  of  the  stones  in  the  foreground  I have 
always  thought,  and  still  think,  the  best  piece  of  rock  drawing 
before  Turner,  and  the  most  amazing  instance  of  Tintoret’s  per- 
ceptiveness afforded  by  any  of  his  pictures. 

21.  St,  Rocco.  Tliree  figures  occupy  the  spandrils  of  the 
window  above  this  and  the  following  picture,  painted  merely  in 
light  and  shade,  two  larger  than  life,  one  rather  smaller.  I 
believe  these  to  be  by  Tintoret;  but  as  they  are  quite  in  the 
dark,  so  that  the  execution  cannot  be  seen,  and  very  good  de- 
signs of  the  kind  have  been  furnished  by  other  masters,  I can- 
not answer  for  them.  The  figure  of  St.  Eocco,  as  well  as  its 
companion,  St.  Sebastian,  is  colored;  they  occupy  the  narrow 
intervals  between  the  windows,  and  are  of  course  invisible  under 
ordinary  circumstances.  By  a great  deal  of  straining  of  the 
eyes,  and  sheltering  them  with  the  hand  from  the  light,  some 


354 


YENETIAK  IKDEX. 


little  idea  of  the  design  may  be  obtained.  The  ^^St.  Eocco” 
is  a fine  figure,  though  rather  coarse,  but,  at  all  events,  worth  as 
much  light  as  would  enable  us  to  see  it. 

22.  St-  Sebastian.  This,  the  companion  figure,  is  one  of  the 
finest  things  in  the  whole  room,  and  assuredly  the  most  majes- 
tic Saint  Sebastian  in  existence;  as  far  as  mere  humanity  can 
be  majestic,  for  there  is  no  effort  at  any  expression  of  angelic 
or  saintly  resignation;  the  effort  is  simply  to  realize  the  fact  of 
the  martyrdom,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  this  is  done  to  an  ex- 
tent not  even  attempted  by  any  other  painter.  I never  saw  a 
man  die  a violent  death,  and  therefore  cannot  say  whether  this 
figure  be  true  or  not,  but  it  gives  the  grandest  and  most  intense 
impression  of  truth.  The  figure  is  dead,  and  well  it  may  be, 
for  there  is  one  arrow  through  the  forehead  and  another 
through  the  heart;  but  the  eyes  are  open,  though  glazed,  and 
the  body  is  rigid  in  the  position  in  which  it  last  stood,  the  left 
arm  raised  and  the  left  limb  advanced,  something  in  the  atti- 
tude of  a soldier  sustaining  an  attack  under  his  shield,  while 
the  dead  eyes  are  still  turned  in  the  direction  from  which  the 
arrows  came : but  the  most  characteristic  feature  is  the  way  these 
arrows  are  fixed.  In  the  common  martyrdoms  of  St.  Sebastian 
they  are  stuck  into  him  here  and  there  like  pins,  as  if  they  had 
been  shot  from  a great  distance  and  had  come  faltering  down, 
entering  the  flesh  but  a little  way,  and  rather  bleeding  the  saint 
to  death  than  mortally  wounding  him;  but  Tintoret  had  no  such 
ideas  about  archery.  He  must  have  seen  bows  drawn  in  battle, 
like  that  of  Jehu  when  he  smote  Jehoram  between  the  harness; 
all  the  arrows  in  the  saint^s  body  lie  straight  in  the  same  direc- 
tion, broad-feathered  and  strong-shafted,  and  sent  apparently 
Avith  the  force  of  thunderbolts;  every  one  of  them  has  gone 
through  him  like  a lance,  tAvo  thvopgh  the  limbs,  one  through 
the  arm,  one  through  the  heart,  and  the  last  has  crashed 
through  the  forehead,  nailing  the  head  to  the  tree  behind  as  if 
it  had  been  dashed  in  by  a sledge-hammer.  The  face,  in  spite 
of  its  ghastliness,  is  beautiful,  and  has  been  serene;  and  the 
light  Avhich  enters  first  and  glistens  on  the  plumes  of  the  arrows, 
dies  softly  aAvay  upon  the  curling  hair,  and  mixes  Avith  the  glory 
upon  the  forehead.  There  is  not  a more  remarkable  picture  in 
Venice,  and  yet  I do  not  suppose  that  one  in  a thousand  of  the 


ROCCO,  SCUOLA  DI  SAK. 


355 


travellers  who  pass  tliroiigli  the  Sciiola  so  nuich  as  perceives 
there  is  a picture  in  the  place  which  it  occupies. 


Third  Group.  On  the  roof  of  the  upper  room. 


23.  Moses  striking  the  Rock. 

24.  Plague  of  Serpents. 

25.  Fall  of  Manna. 

26.  Jacob’s  Dream. 

27.  Ezekiel’s  Vision. 

28.  Fall  of  Man. 


29.  Elijah. 

30.  Jonah. 

31.  Joshua. 

32.  Sacrifice  of  Isaac. 

33.  Elijah  at  the  Brook. 

34.  Paschal  Feast. 


35.  Elisha  feeding  the  PeojDle. 


23.  Moses  strihing  the  Roch.  We  now  come  to  the  series  of 
pictures  upon  which  the  painter  concentrated  the  strength  he 
had  reserved  for  the  upper  room;  and  in  some  sort  wisely,  for, 
though  it  is  not  pleasant  to  examine  pictures  on  a ceiling,  they 
are  at  least  distinctly  visible  Avithout  straining  the  eyes  against 
the  light.  They  are  carefully  conceived  and  thoroughly  Avell 
painted  in  j^roportion  to  their  distance  from  the  eye.  This 
carefulness  of  thought  is  apparent  at  a glance:  the  Moses 
striking  the  Rock  ” embraces  the  Avhole  of  the  seventeenth  chap- 
ter of  Exodus,  and  even  something  more,  for  it  is  not  from  that 
chapter,  but  from  parallel  passages  that  Ave  gather  the  facts  of 
the  impatience  of  Moses  and  the  Avrath  of  God  at  the  waters  of 
Meribah;  both  which  facts  are  shown  by  the  leaping  of  the 
stream  out  of  the  rock  half-a-dozen  Avays  at  once,  forming  a 
great  arch  over  the  head  of  Moses,  and  by  the  partial  veiling 
of  the  countenance  of  the  Supreme  Being.  This  latter  is  the 
most  painful  part  of  the  whole  picture,  at  least  as  it  is  seen  from 
beioAv;  and  I believe  that  in  some  repairs  of  the  roof  this  head 


356 


VEKETIAK  IKDEX. 


must  have  been  destroyed  and  repainted.  It  is  one  of  Tinto-  ■ 
ret’s  usual  fine  thoughts  that  the  lower  part  of  the  figure  is 
veiled,  not  merely  by  clouds,  but  in  a kind  of  watery  sphere, 
showing  the  Deity  coming  to  the  Israelites  at  that  particular 
moment  as  the  Lord  of  the  Eivers  and  of  the  Eountain  of  the 
Waters.  The  whole  figure,  as  well  as  that  of  Moses  and  the 
greater  number  of  those  in  the  foreground,  is  at  once  dark  and 
warm,  black  and  red  being  the  prevailing  colors,  while  the 
distance  is  bright  gold  touched  with  blue,  and  seems  to  open 
into  the  picture  like  a break  of  blue  sky  after  rain.  How  ex- 
quisite is  this  expression,  by  mere  color,  of  the  main  force  of  the 
fact  represented!  that  is  to  say,  joy  and  refreshment  after  sorrov’ 
and  scorching  heat.  But,  when  we  examine  of  what  this  dis- 
tance consists,  we  shall  find  still  more  cause  for  admiration. 
The  blue  in  it  is  not  the  blue  of  sky,  it  is  obtained  by  blue 
stripes  upon  white  tents  glowing  in  the  sunshine;  and  in  front 
of  these  tents  is  seen  that  great  battle  with  Amalek  of  which 
the  account  is  given  in  the  remainder  of  the  chapter,  and  for 
which  the  Israelites  received  strength  in  the  streams  which  ran 
out  of  the  rock  in  Horeb.  Considered  merely  as  a picture,  the 
opposition  of  cool  light  to  warm  shadow  is  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable pieces  of  color  in  the  Scuola,  and  the  great  mass  of 
foliage  which  waves  over  the  rocks  on  the  left  appears  to  have 
been  elaborated  with  his  highest  power  and  his  most  sublime 
invention.  But  this  noble  passage  is  much  injured,  and  now 
hardly  visible. 

24.  Plague  of  Serpents,  The  figures  in  the  distance  are 
remarkably  important  in  this  picture,  Moses  himself  being 
among  them;  in  fact;  the  whole  scene  is  filled  chiefiy  with, 
middle-sized  figures,  in  order  to  increase  the  imj)ression  of 
space.  It  is  interesting  to  observe  the  difference  in  the  treat- 
ment of  this  subject  by  the  three  great  painters,  Michael 
Angelo,  Eubens,  and  Tintoret.  The  first  two,  equal  to  the 
latter  in  energy,  had  less  love  of  liberty:  they  were  fond  of 
binding  their  compositions  into  knots,  Tintoret  of  scattering 
his  far  and  wide:  they  all  alike  preserve  the  unity  of  compo- 
sition, but  the  unity  in  *the  first  two  is  obtained  by  binding, 
and  that  of  the  last  by  springing  from  one  source ; and, 
together  with  this  feeling,  comes  his  love  of  space,  Avhich 


ROCCO,  SCUOLA  DI 


357 

makes  Inm  less  regard  the  rounding  and  form  of  objects 
themselveK;,  than  their  relSions  of  light  and  shade  and  dis- 
tance. Therefore  Eubens  and  Michael  Angelo  made  the  fiery 
serpents  huge  boa  constrictors,  and  knotted  the  sufferers 
together  with  them.  Tintoret  does  not  like  to  be  so  bound; 
so  he  makes  the  serpents  little  flying  and  fluttering  monsters 
like  lampreys  with  wings;  and  the  children  of  Israel,  instead 
of  being  thrown  into  convulsed  and  writhing  groups,  are  scat- 
tered, fainting  in  the  fields,  far  away  in  the  distance.  As  usual, 
Tintoret’s  conception,  while  thoroughly  characteristic  of  him- 
self, is' also  truer  to  the  words  of  Scripture.  We  are  told  that 
^‘^the  Lord  sent  fiery  serpents  among  the  people,  and  they  iit 
the  people;”  we  are  not  told  that  they  crushed  the  people  to 
death.  And  while  thus  the  truest,  it  is  also  the  most  terrific 
conception.  M.  Angelo’s  would  be  terrific  if  one  could  be- 
lieve in  it:  but  our  instinct  tells  us  that  boa  constrictors  do 
not  come  in  armies;  and  we  look  upon  the  picture  with  as 
little  emotion  as  upon  the  handle  of  a vase,  or  any  other  form 
worked  out  of  serpents,  where  there  is  no  probability  of  ser- 
pents actually  occurring.  But  there  is  a probability  in  Tin- 
toret’s  conception.  We  feel  that  it  is  not  impossible  that 
there  should  come  up  a swarm  of  these  small  winged  reptiles: 
and  their  horror  is  not  diminished  by  their  smallness:  not 
that  they  have  any  of  the  grotesque  terribleness  of  German 
invention;  they  might  have  been  made  infinitely  uglier  with 
small  pains,  but  it  is  their  veritaileness  which  makes  them 
awful.  They  have  triangular  heads  with  sharp  beaks  or 
muzzle;  and  short,  rather  thick  bodies,  with  bony  processes 
down  the  back  like  those  of  sturgeons;  and  small  wings 
spotted  with  orange  and  black;  and  round  glaring  eyes,  not 
very  large,  but  very  ghastly,  with  an  intense  delight  in  biting 
expressed  in  them.  (It  is  observable,  that  the  Venetian 
painter  has  got  his  main  idea  of  them  from  the  sea-horses 
and  small  reptiles  of  the  Lagoons.)  These  monsters  are  flut- 
tering and  writhing  about  everywhere,  fixing  on  whatever 
they  come  near  with  their  sharp  venomous  heads;  and  they 
are  coiling  about  on  the  ground,  and  all  the  shadows  and 
thickets  are  full  of  them,  so  that  there  is  no  escape  anywhere: 
and,  in  order  to  give  the  idea  of  greater  extent  to  the  plague, 


358 


VEKETIAK  IKDEX. 


Tintoret  lias  not  been  content  witli  one  liorizon;  I have  before 
mentioned  the  excessive  strangeness  of  this  composition,  in 
having  a cavern  ojien  in  the  right  of  the  foreground,  through 
which  is  seen  another  sky  and  another  horizon.  At  the  top 
of  the  picture,  tlie  Divine  Being  is  seen  borne  by  angels, 
apparently  passing  over  the  congregation  in  wrath,  involved 
in  masses  of  dark  clouds;  while,  behind,  an  Angel  of  merey 
is  descending  toward  Moses,  surrounded  by  a globe  of  white 
light.  This  globe  is  hardly  seen  from  below;  it  is  not  a common 
glory,  but  a transparent  sphere,  like  a bubble,  which  not  only 
envelopes  the  angel,  but  crosses  the  figure  of  Moses,  throwing 
the  upper  part  of  it  into  a subdued  pale  color,  as  if  it  were 
crossed  by  a sunbeam.  Tintoret  is  the  only  painter  who  plays 
these  tricks  with  transparent  light,  the  only  man  who  seems 
to  have  perceived  the  effects  of  sunbeams,  mists,  and  clouds, 
in  the  far  away  atmosphere;  and  to  have  used  what  he  saw  on 
towers,  clouds,  or  mountains,  to  enhance  the  sublimity  of  his 
figures.  The  whole  upper  part  of  this  picture  is  magnificent, 
less  with  respect  to  individual  figures,  than  for  the  drift  of  its 
clouds,  and  originalty  and  complication  of  its  light  and  shade; 
it  is  something  like  Eaffaelle’s  Vision  of  Ezekiel,”  but  far 
finer.  It  is  difficult  to  understand  how  any  painter,  who  coidd 
represent  fioating  clouds  so  nobly  as  he  has  done  here,  could 
ever  paint  the  odd,  round,  pillowy  masses  which  so  often  occur 
in  his  more  carelessly  designed  sacred  subjects.  The  lower 
figures  are  not  so  interesting,  and  the  whole  is  painted  with  a 
view  to  effect  from  below,  and  gains  little  by  close  examina- 
tion. 

25.  Fall  of  Manna,  In  none  of  these  three  large  composi- 
tions has  the  painter  made  the  slightest  effort  at  expression  in 
the  human  countenance;  everything  is  done  by  gesture,  and 
the  faces  of  the  people  who  are  drinking  from  the  rock,  dying 
from  the  serpent-bites,  and  eating  the  manna,  are  all  alike  as 
calm  as  if  nothing  was  happening;  in  addition  to  this,  as  they 
are  painted  for  distant  effect,  tlie  heads  are  unsatisfactory 
and  coarse  when  seen  near,  and  perhaps  in  this  last  picture 
the  more  so,  and  }"et  the  story  is  exquisitely  told.  We  have 
seen  in  the  Church  of  San  Giorgio  Maggiore  another  example 
of  his  treatment  of  it,  where,  however,  the  gathering  of 


IIOCCO,  SCUOLA  DI  SAI^. 


359 


manna  is  a subordinate  employment^  but  here  it  is  prin- 
cipal. Now,  observe,  we  are  told  of  tlie  manna,  that  it  was 
I found  in  the  morning;  that  then  there  lay  round  about  the 
I camp  a small  round  thing  like  the  hoar-frost,  and  that  when 

I the  sun  waxed  hot  it  melted.”  Tintoret  has  endeavored, 

: therefore,  first  of  all,  to  give  the  idea  of  coolness;  the  congre- 

gation are  reposing  in  a soft  green  meadow,  surrounded  by 
blue  hills,  and  there  are  rich  trees  above  them,  to  the  branches 
of  one  of  which  is  attached  a great  grey  drapery  to  catch  the 
manna  as  it  comes  down.  In  any  other  picture  such  a mass 
of  drapery  would  assuredly  have  had  some  vivid  color,  but  here 
it  is  grey;  the  fields  are  cool  frosty  green,  the  mountains  cold 
blue,  and,  to  complete  the  expression  and  meaning  of  all  this, 
there  is  a most  important  point  to  be  noted  in  the  form  of  the 
Deity,  seen  above,  through  an  opening  in  the  clouds.  There 
are  at  least  ten  or  twelve  other  pictures  in  which  the  form  of 
the  Supreme  Being  occurs,  to  be  found  in  the  Scuola  di  San 
Kocco  alone;  and  in  every  one  of  these  instances  it  is  richly 
colored,  the  garments  being  generally  red  and  blue,  but  in 
this  picture  of  the  manna  the  figure  is  snow  loMte,  Thus  the 
painter  endeavors  to  show  the  Deity  as  the  giver  of  bread, 
just  as  in  the  Striking  of  the  Kock”  we  saAV  that  he  repre- 
sented Him  as  the  Lord  of  the  rivers,  the  fountains,  and  the 
waters.  There  is  one  other  very  sweet  incident  at  the  bottom 
of  the  picture;  four  or  five  sheep,  instead  of  pasturing,  turn 
their  heads  aside  to  catch  the  manna  as  it  comes  down, 
or  seem  to  be  licking  it  off  each  other’s  fleeces.  The  tree 
above,  to  which  the  drapery  is  tied,  is  the  most  delicate  and 
delightful  piece  of  leafage  in  all  the  Scuola;  it  has  a large 
sharp  leaf,  something  like  that  of  a willow,  but  five  times  the 
size. 

26.  JacoVs  Dream,  A picture  which  has  good  effect  from 
below,  but  gains  little  when  seen  near.  It  is  an  embarrassing 
one  for  any  painter,  because  angels  always  look  awkward  going 
up  and  down  stairs;  one  does  not  see  the  use  of  their  wings. 
Tintoret  has  thrown  them  into  buoyant  and  various  attitudes, 
but  has  evidently  not  treated  the  subject  with  delight;  and  it 
r is  seen  to  all  the  more  disadvantage  because  just  above  the 
painting  of  the  Ascension,”  in  which  the  full  fresh  power 


360 


YENETIAISr  INDEX. 


of  the  painter  is  developed.  One  would  think  this  latter  pic- 
ture had  been  done  just  after  a walk  among  hills^  for  it  is 
full  of  the  most  delicate  effects  of  transparent  cloud,  more  or 
less  veiling  the  faces  and  forms  of  the  angels,  and  covering 
with  white  light  the  silvery  sprays  of  the  palms,  Avhile  the 
clouds  in  the  Jacob’s  Dream”  are  the  ordinary  rotundities  of 
the  studio. 

27.  EzehieVs  Vision.  I suspect  this  has  been  repainted,  it 
is  so  heavy  and  dead  in  color;  a fault,  however,  observable  in 
many  of  the  small  pictures  on  the  ceiling,  and  perhaps  the 
natural  result  of  the  fatigue  of  such  a mind  as  Tintoret’s.  A 
painter  who  threw  such  intense  energy  into  some  of  his  works 
can  hardly  but  have  been  languid  in  others  in  a degree  never 
experienced  by  the  more  tranquil  minds  of  less  powerful  work- 
men; and  when  this  languor  overtook  him  whilst  he  was  at 
work  on  pictures  where  a certain  space  had  to  be  covered  by 
mere  force  of  arm,  this  heaviness  of  color  could  hardly  but 
have  been  the  consequence:  it  shows  itself  chiefly  in  reds  and 
other  hot  hues,  many  of  the  pictures  in  the  Ducah Palace  also 
displaying  it  in  a painful  degree.  This  Ezekiel’s  Vision”  is, 
however,  in  some  measure  worthy  of  the  master,  in  the  wild 
and  horrible  energy  with  which  the  skeletons  are  leaping  up 
about  the  prophet;  but  it  might  have  been  less  horrible  and 
more  sublime,  no  attempt  being  made  to  represent  the  space 
of  the  Valley  of  Dry  Bones,  and  the  whole  canvas  being  occu- 
pied only  by  eight  figures,  of  which  five  are  half  skeletons.  It 
it  is  strange  that,  in  such  a subject,  the  prevailing  hues  should 
be  red  and  brown. 

28.  Fall  of  Man.  The  two  canvases  last  named  are  the 
most  considerable  in  size  upon  the  roof,  after  the  centre 
pieces.  We  now  come  to  the  smaller  subjects  which  sur- 
round the  Striking  the  Eock;”  of  these  this  Fall  of  Man” 
is  the  best,  and  I should  think  it  very  fine  anywhere  but  in 
the  Scuola  di  San  Eocco;  there  is  a grand  light  on  the  body  of 
Eve,  and  the  vegetation  is  remarkably  rich,  but  the  faces  are 
coarse,  and  the  composition  uninteresting.  I could  not  get 
near  enough  to  see  what  the  grey  object  is  upon  which  Eve 
ap])ears  to  be  sitting,  nor  could  I see  any  serpent.  It  is 
made  prominent  in  the  picture  of  the  Academy  of  this  same 


ROCCO,  SCUOLA  DI  SAis’. 


361 


subject,  so  that  I sui3pose  it  is  hidden  in  the  darkness,  together 
with  much  detail  which  it  would  be  necessary  to  discover  in 
order  to  judge  the  work  Justly. 

29.  Elijah  {?).  A prophet  holding  down  his  face,  which  is 
covered  with  his  hand.  God  is  talking  with  him,  apparently 
in  rebuke.  The  clothes  on  his  breast  are  rent,  and  the  action 
of  the  figures  might  suggest  the  idea  of  the  scene  between  the 
Deity  and  Elijah  at  Horeb:  but  there  is  no  suggestion  of  the 
past  magnificent  scenery, — of  the  wind,  the  earthquake,  or 
the  fire;  so  that  the  conjecture  is  good  for  very  little.  The 
painting  is  of  small  interest;  the  faces  are  vulgar,  and  the 
draperies  have  too  much  vapid  historical  dignity  to  be  de- 
lightful. 

30.  Jonah,  The  whale  here  occupies  fully  one-half  of  the 
canvas;  being  correspondent  in  value  with  a landscape  back- 
ground. His  mouth  is  as  large  as  a cavern,  and  yet,  unless 
the  mass  of  red  color  in  the  foreground  be  a piece  of  drapery, 
his  tongue  is  too  large  for  it.  He  seems  to  have  lifted  Jonah 
out  upon  it,  and  not  yet  drawn  it  back,  so  that  it  forms  a kind 
of  crimson  cushion  for  him  to  kneel  upon  in  his  submission  to 
the  Deity.  The  head  to  which  this  vast  tongue  belongs  is 
sketched  in  somewhat  loosely,  and  there  is  little  remarkable 
about  it  except  its  size,  nor  much  in  the  figures,  though  the 
submissiveness  of  Jonah  is  well  given.  The  great  thought  of 
Michael  Angelo  renders  one  little  charitable  to  any  less  imag- 
inative treatment  of  this  subject. 

31.  Joshua  {?).  This  is  a most  interesting  picture,  and  it 
is  a shame  that  its  subject  is  not  made  out,  for  it  is  not  a com- 
mon one.  The  figure  has  a sword  in  its  hand,  and  looks  up  to 
a sky  full  of  fire,  out  of  which  the  form  of  the  Deity  is  stoop- 
ing, represented  as  white  and  colorless.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  picture  there  is  seen  among  the  clouds  a pillar  apparently 
falling,  and  there  is  a crowd  at  the  feet  of  the  principal  figure, 
carrying  spears.  Unless  this  be  Joshua  at  the  fall  of  Jericho, 
I cannot  tell  what  it  means  ; it  is  painted  with  great  vigor, 
and  worthy  of  a better  place. 

32.  Sacrifice  of  Isaac.  In  conception,  it  is  one  of  the  least 
worthy  of  the  master  in  the  whole  room,  the  three  figures  be- 
ing thrown  into  violent  attitudes,  as  inexpressive  as  they  are 


362 


VEKETIAi^^  IllTDEX. 


strained  and  artificial.  It  appears  to  haye  been  vigorously 
painted,  but  yulgarly ; that  is  to  say,  the  light  is  concen- 
trated upon  the  white  beard  and  upturned  countenance  of 
Abraham,  as  it  would  have  been  in  one  of  the  dramatic  effects 
of  tlie  French  school,  the  result  being  that  the  head  is  very 
bright  and  very  conspicuous,  and  joerhaps,  in  some  of  the  late 
operations  upon  the  roof,  recently  washed  and  touched.  In 
consequence,  every  one  who  comes  into  the  room,  is  first  in- 
vited to  observe  the  bella  testa  di  Abramo.”  The  only  thing 
characteristic  of  Tintoret  is  the  way  in  which  the  pieces  of 
ragged  wood  are  tossed  hither  and  thither  in  the  pile  upon 
which  Isaac  is  bound,  although  this  scattering  of  the  wood  is 
inconsistent  with  the  Scriptural  account  of  Abraham’s  delib- 
erate procedure,  for  we  are  told  of  him  that  ^^le  set  the  wood 
in  order.”  But  Tintoret  had  probably  not  noticed  this,  and 
thought  the  tossing  of  the  timber  into  the  disordered  heap 
more  like  the  act  of  the  father  in  his  agony. 

33.  Elijah  at  the  Brooh  Cherith  {?),  I cannot  tell  if  I have 
rightly  interpreted  the  meaning  of  this  picture,  which  merely 
represents  a noble  figure  couched  upon  the  ground,  and  an 
angel  appearing  to  him  ; but  I think  that  between  the  dark 
tree  on  the  left,  and  the  recumbent  figure,  there  is  some  ap- 
pearance of  a running  stream,  at  all  events  there  is  of  a 
mountainous  and  stony  place.  The  longer  I study  this  mas- 
ter, the  more  I feel  the  strange  likeness  between  him  and 
Turner,  in  our  never  knowing  what  subject  it  is  that  will  stir 
him  to  exertion.  We  have  lately  had  him  treating  Jacob’s 
Dream,  Ezekiel’s  Vision,  Abraham’s  Sacrifice,  and  Jonah’s 
Prayer,  (all  of  them  subjects  on  which  the  greatest  painters 
have  delighted  to  expend  their  strength,)  with  coldness,  care- 
lessness, and  evident  absence  of  delight ; and  here,  on  a sud- 
den, in  a subject  so  indistinct  that  one  cannot  be  sure  of  its 
meaning,  and  embracing  only  two  figures,  a man  and  an  angel, 
forth  he  starts  in  his  full  strength.  I believe  he  must  some- 
where or  another,  the  day  before,  have  seen  a kingfisher  ; for 
this  picture  seems  entirely  painted  for  the  sake  of  the  glorious 
downy  wings  of  the  angel, — white  clouded  with  blue,  as  the 
bird’s  head  and  wings  are  with  green, — the  softest  and  most 
elaborate  in  plumage  that  I have  seen  in  any  of  his  works  : 


KOCCO,  SCUOLA  D1  SAIsT. 


3G3 


but  observe  also  the  general  sublimity  obtained  by  the  mount- 
ainous lines  of  the  drapery  of  the  recumbent  figure,  dependent 
for  its  dignity  upon  these  forms  alone,  as  the  face  is  more  than 
half  hidden,  and  what  is  seen  of  it  expressionless. 

34.  The  Paschal  Feast,  I name  this  picture  by  the  title  given 
in  the  guide-books  ; it  represents  merely  five  persons  watching 
the  increase  of  a small  fire  lighted  on  a table  or  altar  in  the 
midst  of  them.  It  is  only  because  they  have  all  staves  in  their 
hands  that  one  may  conjecture  this  fire  to  be  that  kindled  to 
consume  the  Paschal  offering.  The  effect  is  of  course  a fire 
light ; and,  like  all  mere  fire  lights  that  I have  ever  seen, 
totally  devoid  of  interest. 

35.  Elisha  feeding  the  People,  I again  guess  at  the  subject : 
the  picture  only  represents  a figure  casting  down  a number  of 
loaves  before  a multitude ; but,  as  Elisha  has  not  elsewhere 
occurred,  I suppose  that  these  must  be  the  barley  loaves  brought 
from  Baalshalisha.  In  conception  and  manner  of  painting, 
this  picture  and  the  last,  together  with  the  others  above- 
mentioned,  in  comparison  with  the  Elijah  at  Cherith,”  may 
be  generally  described  as  dregs  of  Tintoret they  are  tired, 
dead,  dragged  out  upon  the  canvas  apparently  in  the  heavy- 
hearted  state  which  a man  falls  into  when  he  is  both  jaded 
with  toil  and  sick  of  the  work  he  is  employed  upon.  They 
are  not  hastily  painted  ; on  the  contrary,  finished  with  con- 
siderably more  care  than  several  of  the  works  upon  the  walls  ; 
but  those,  as,  for  instance,  the  Agony  in  the  Garden,’’  are 
hurried  sketches  with  the  man’s  whole  heart  in  them,  while 
these  pictures  are  exhausted  fulfilments  of  an  appointed  task. 
Whether  they  were  really  amongst  the  last  painted,  or  whether 
the  painter  had  fallen  ill  at  some  intermediate  time,  I cannot 
say ; but  we  shall  find  him  again  in  his  utmost  strength  in  the 
room  which  we  last  enter. 


©SOS© 


364 


VEi^ETIAN  IKEEX. 


Foiirtn  Group.  Inner  room  on  the  upper  floor. 
--  £2 


£Ii3  CjD  ^ © 


,S9  ' ““  ffo  " W 


On  the  Roof. 


36  to  39.  Children’s  Heads.  41  to  44.  Children. 

40.  St.  Rocco  in  Heaven.  45  to  56.  Allegorical  Figures. 


On  the  Walls. 

57.  Figure  in  Niche.  60.  Ecce  Homo. 

58.  Figure  in  Niche.  61.  Christ  bearing  his  Cross. 

59.  Christ  before  Pilate.  62.  Ckucifixiok. 

36  to  39.  Four  Children's  Heads,  which  it  is  much  to  be  re- 
gretted should  be  thus  lost  in  filling  small  vacuities  of  the  ceiling. 

40.  St,  Rocco  in  Heaven.  The  central  picture  of  the  roof, 
in  the  inner  room.  From  the  well-known  anecdote  respecting 
the  production  of  this  picture,  whether  in  all  its  details  true  or 
not,  we  may  at  least  gather  that  having  been  painted  in  competi- 
tion with  Paul  Veronese  and  other  powerful  painters  of  the 
day,  it  was  probably  Tintoret’s  endeavor  to  make  it  as  popular 
and  showy  as  possible.  It  is  quite  different  from  his  common 
works ; bright  in  all  its  tints  and  tones ; the  faces  carefully 


ROCCO^  SCUOLA  D1  SAN. 


3G5 


drawn,  and  of  an  agreeable  type ; the  outlines  firm,  and  the 
shadows  few ; the  whole  resembling  Correggio  more  than  any 
Venetian  painter.  It  is,  how'ever,  an  example  of  the  danger, 
even  to  the  greatest  artist,  of  leaving  his  own  style  ; for  it  lacks 
all  the  great  virtues  of  Tintoret,  without  obtaining  the  luscious- 
ness of  Correggio.  One  thing,  at  all  events,  is  remarkable  in  it, 
-r-that,  though  painted  while  the  competitors  were  making  their 
sketches,  it  shows  no  sign  of  haste  or  inattention. 

41  to  44.  Figures  of  Children,  merely  decorative. 

45  to  56.  Allegorical  Figures  on  the  Roof.  If  these  were  not 
in  the  same  room  with  the  Crucifixion,’’  they  would  attract 
more  public  attention  than  any  works  in  the  Scuola,  as  there  are 
here  no  black  shadows,  nor  extravagances  of  invention,  but  very 
beautiful  figures  richly  and  delicately  colored,^  a good  deal  re- 
sembling some  of  the  best  works  of  Andrea  del  Sarto.  There  is 
nothing  in  them,  however,  requiring  detailed  examination.  The 
two  figures  between  the  windows  are  very  slovenly,  if  they  are 
his  at  all ; and  there  are  bits  of  marbling  and  fruit  filling  the 
cornices,  which  may  or  may  not  be  his  : if  they  are,  they  are 
tired  work,  and  of  small  importance. 

59.  Christ  before  Pilate.  A most  interesting  picture,  but, 
which  is  unusual,  best  seen  on  a dark  day,  when  the  white  figure 
of  Christ  alone  draws  the  eye,  looking  almost  like  a spirit ; the 
painting  of  the  rest  of  the  picture  being  both  somewhat  thin  and 
imperfect.  There  is  a certain  meagreness  about  all  the  minor 
figures,  less  grandeur  and  largeness  in  the  limbs  and  draperies, 
and  less  solidity,  it  seems,  even  in  the  color,  although  its  ar- 
rangements are  richer  than  in  many  of  the  compositions  above 
described.  I hardly  know  whether  it  is  owing  to  this  thinness 
of  color,  or  on  purpose,  that  the  horizontal  clouds  shine  through 
the  crimson  flag  in  the  distance  ; though  I should  think  the  lat- 
ter, for  the  effect  is  most  beautiful.  The  passionate  action  of 
the  Scribe  in  lifting  his  hand  to  dip  the  pen  into  the  ink-horn 
is,  however,  affected  and  overstrained,  and  the  Pilate  is  very 
mean ; perhaps  intentionally,  that  no  reverence  might  be  with- 
drawn from  the  person  of  Christ.  In  work  of  the  thirteenth 
and  fourteentli  centuries,  the  figures  of  Pilate  and  Herod  are 
always  intentionally  made  contemptible. 

' Ecce  Homo.  As  usual,  Tintoret’s  -own  peculiar  view  of  the 


VENETIAN  li^^DEX. 


subject.  Christ  is  laid  fainting  on  the  ground,  with  a soldier 
standing  on  one  side  of  him  ; while  Pilate,  on  the  other,  with- 
draws the  robe  from  the  scourged  and  wounded  body,  and  points 
it  out  to  the  Jews.  Both  this  and  the  picture  last  mentioned 
resemble  Titian  more  than  Tintoret  in  the  stylo  of  their  treat- 
ment. 

61.  Christ  bearing  his  Cross.  Tintoret  is  here  recognizable 
again  in  undiminished  strength.  He  has  represented  the  troops 
and  attendants  climbing  Calvary  by  a winding  path,  of  which 
two  turns  are  seen,  the  figures  on  the  uppermost  ledge,  and 
Christ  in  the  centre  of  them,  being  relieved  against  the  sky  ; 
but,  instead  of  the  usual  simple  expedient  of  the  bright  horizon 
to  relieve  the  dark  masses,  there  is  here  introduced,  on  the  left, 
the  head  of  a white  horse,  which  blends  itself  with  the  sky  in 
one  broad  mass  of  light.  The  power  of  the  picture  is  chiefly  in 
effect,  the  figure  of  Christ  being  too  far  off  to  be  very  interest- 
ing, and  only  the  malefactors  being  seen  on  the  nearer  path; 
but  for  this  very  reason  it  seems  to  me  more  impressive,  as  if 
one  had  been  truly  present  at  the  scene,  though  not  exactly  in 
the  right  place  for  seeing  it. 

62.  The  Crucifixion.  I must  leave  this  picture  to  work  its 
will  on  the  spectator  ; for  it  is  beyond  all  analysis,  and  above  all 
praise. 

S 

Sagkedo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  II.  256.  Much  de- 
faced, but  full  of  interest.  Its  sea  story  is  restored  ; its  first 
floor  has  a most  interesting  arcade  of  the  early  thirteenth 
century  third  order  windows  ; its  upper  windows  are  the  finest 
fourth  and  fifth  orders  of  early  fourteenth  centuiy ; the  group 
of  fourth  orders  in  the  centre  being  brought  into  some  resem- 
blance to  the  late  Gothic  traceries  by  the  subsequent  intro- 
duction of  the  quatrefoils  above  them. 

Salute,  Church  of  Sta.  Maria  della,  on  the  Grand  Canal, 
II.  378.  One  of  the  earliest  buildings  of  the  Grotesque  Ee- 
naissance,  rendered  impressive  by  its  position,  size,  and  general 
proportions.  These  latter  are  exceedingly  good  ; the  grace 
of  the  whole  building  being  chiefly  dependent  on  the  ine- 
quality of  size  in  its  cupolas,  and  pretty  grouping  of  the  two 
campaniles  behind  them.  It  is  to  be  generally  observed  that 


SAailEl?0 — SALUTE. 


867 


the  proportions  of  buildings  haye  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
the  style  or  general  merits  of  their  architecture.  An  architect 
trained  in  the  worst  schools,  and  utterly  devoid  of  all  meaning 
or  purpose  in  his  work,  may  yet  have  such  a natural  gift  of 
massing  and  grouping  as  will  render  all  his  structures  effec- 
tive when  seen  from  a distance  : such  a gift  is  very  general 
with  the  late  Italian  builders,  so  that  many  of  the  most  con- 
temptible edifices  in  the  country  have  good  stage  effect  so  long 
as  we  do  not  approach  them.  The  Church  of  the  Salute  is 
farther  assisted  by  the  beautiful  flight  of  steps  in  front  of  it 
down  to  the  canal ; and  its  facade  is  rich  and  beautiful  of  its 
kind,  and  was  chosen  by  Turner  for  the  principal  object  in  his 
well-known  view  of  the  Grand  Canal.  The  principal  faults  of 
the  building  are  the  meagre  windows  in  the  sides  of  the  cupola, 
and  the  ridiculous  disguise  of  the  buttresses  under  the  form  of 
colossal  scrolls  ; the  buttresses  themselves  being  originally  a 
hypocrisy,  for  the  cupola  is  stated  by  Lazari  to  be  of  timber,  and 
therefore  needs  none.  The  sacristy  contains  several  jirecious 
pictures  : the  three  on  its  roof  by  Titian,  much  vaunted,  are 
indeed  as  feeble  as  they  are  monstrous ; but  the  small  Titian, 

St.  Mark,  with  Sts.  Cosmo  and  Damian,’’  was,  when  I first 
saw  it,  to  my  judgment,  by  far  the  first  work  of  Titian’s  in 
Venice.  It  has  since  been  restored  by  the  Academy,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  entirely  destroyed,  but  I had  not  time  to  examine 
it  carefully. 

At  the  end  of  the  larger  sacristy  is  the  lunette  which  once 
decorated  the  tomb  of  the  Doge  Francesco  Dandolo  (see  above, 
page  74) ; and,  at  the  side  of  it,  one  of  the  most  highly  finished 
Tintorets  in  Venice,  namely  : 

The  Marriage  in  Cana,  An  immense  picture,  some  twenty- 
five  feet  long  by  fifteen  high,  and  said  by  Lazari  to  be  one  of 
the  few  which  Tintoret  signed  with  his  name.  I am  not  sur- 
prised at  his  having  done  so  in  this  case.  Evidently  the  work 
has  been  a favorite  with  him,  and  he  has  taken  as  much  pains 
as  it  was  ever  necessary  for  his  colossal  strength  to  take  with 
anything.  The  subject  is  not  one  which  admits  of  much  sin- 
gularity or  energy  in  composition.  It  was  always  a favorite 
one  with  Veronese,  because  it  gave  dramatic  interest  to  figures 
in  gay  costumes  and  of  cheerful  countenances  ; but  one  is  sur- 


n(jS 


VEKETiAK  IKDEX. 


prised  to  find  Tintoret^  whose  tone  of  mind  was  always  grave, 
and  who  did  not  like  to  make  a picture  out  of  brocades  and 
diadems,  throwing  his  whole  strength  into  the  conception  of  a 
marriage  feast ; but  so  it  is,  and  there  are  assuredly  no  female 
heads  in  any  of  his  j)ictures  in  Venice  elaborated  so  far  as  those 
which  here  form  the  central  light.  Neither  is  it  often  that  the 
works  of  this  mighty  master  conform  themselves  to  any  of  the 
rules  acted  upon  by  ordinary  painters  ; but  in  this  instance  the 
popular  laws  have  been  observed,  and  an  academy  student 
would  be  delighted  to  see  with  what  severity  the  principal  light 
is  arranged  in  a central  mass,  which  is  divided  and  made  more 
brilliant  by  a vigorous  piece  of  shadow  thrust  into  the  midst  of 
it,  and  which  dies  away  in  lesser  fragments  and  sparkling  to- 
wards the  extremities  of  the  picture.  This  mass  of  light  is  as 
interesting  by  its  composition  as  by  its  intensity.  The  cice- 
rone who  escorts  the  stranger  round  the  sacristy  in  the  course 
of  five  minutes,  and  allows  him  some  forty  seconds  for  the 
contemplation  of  a picture  which  the  study  of  six  months 
would  not  entirely  fathom,  directs  his  attention  very  carefully 
to  the  ^^belh  effetto  di  prospettivo,^’  the  whole  merit  of  the 
picture  being,  in  the  eyes  of  the  intelligent  public,  that  there 
is  a long  table  in  it,  one  end  of  which  looks  farther  off  than 
the  other  ; but  there  is  more  in  the  belh  effetto  di  prospek 
tivo’’  than  the  observanco  of  the  common  laws  of  optics.  The 
table  is  set  in  a spacious  chamber,  of  which  the  windows  at  the 
end  let  in  the  light  from  the  horizon,  and  those  in  the  side 
wall  the  intense  blue  of  an  Eastern  sky.  The  spectator  looks 
all  along  the  table,  at  the  farther  end  of  which  are  seated 
Christ  and  the  Madonna,  the  marriage  guests  on  each  side  of 
it, — on  one  side  men,  on  the  other  women  ; the  men  are  set 
Avith  their  backs  to  the  light,  Avhich  passing  over  their  heads 
and  glancing  slightly  on  the  tablecloth,  falls  in  full  length 
along  the  line  of  young  Venetian  women,  who  thus  fill  the 
Avhole  centre  of  the  picture  Avith  one  broad  sunbeam,  made  up 
of  fair  faces  and  golden  hair.  Close  to  the  spectator  a woman 
has  risen  in  amazement,  and  stretches  across  the  table  to  sIioav 
the  Avine  in  her  cup  to  those  opposite  ; her  dark  red  dress  in- 
tercepts and  enliances  the  mass  of  gathered  light.  It  is  rather 
curious,  considering  the  subject  of  the  picture,  that  one  can- 


SALUTI^. 


369 


not  distinguish  either  the  bride  or  the  bridegi’oom  ; but  the 
fourth  figure  from  the  Madonna  in  the  line  of  women,  who 
wears  a white  head-dress  of  lace  and  rich  chains  of  pearls  in 
her  hair,  may  well  be  accepted  for  the  former,  and  I think  that 
between  her  and  the  woman  on  the  Madonna’s  left  hand  the 
unity  of  the  line  of  women  is  intercepted  by  a male  figure  ; be 
this  as  it  may,  this  fourth  female  face  is  the  most  beautiful,  as 
far  as  I recollect,  that  occurs  in  the  works  of  the  painter,  with 
the  exception  only  of  the  Madonna  in  the  Flight  into  Egypt.” 
It  is  an  ideal  which  occurs  indeed  elsewhere  in  many  of  his 
works,  a face  at  once  dark  and  delicate,  the  Italian  cast  of 
feature  moulded  with  the  softness  and  childishness  of  English 
beauty  some  half  a century  ago  ; but  I have  nexer  seen  the 
ideal  so  completely  worked  out  by  the  master.  The  face  may 
best  be  described  as  one  of  the  jmrest  and  softest  of  Stothard’s 
conceptions*,  executed  with  all  the  strength  of  Tintoret.  The 
other  women  are  all  made  inferior  to  this  one,  but  there  are 
beautiful  profiles  and  bendings  of  breasts  and  necks  along  the 
whole  line.  The  men  are  all  subordinate,  though  there  are  in- 
teresting portraits  among  them  ; perhaps  the  only  fault  of  the 
picture  being  that  the  faces  are  a little  too  conspicuous,  seen 
like  balls  of  light  among  the  crowd  of  minor  figures  which  fill 
the  background  of  the  picture.  The  tone  of  the  whole  is  sober 
and  majestic  in  the  highest  degree ; the  dresses  are  all  broad 
masses  of  color,  and  the  only  parts  of  the  j^icture  which  lay 
claim  to  the  expression  of  wealth  or  splendor  arc  the  head- 
dresses of  the  women.  In  this  respect  the  conception  of  the 
scene  differs  widely  from  that  of  Veronese,  and  approaches 
more  nearly  to  the  probable  truth.  Still  the  marriage  is  not 
an  unimportant  one  ; an  immense  crowd,  filling  the  back« 
ground,  forming  superbly  rich  mosaic  of  color  against  the  dis= 
tant  sky.  Taken  as  a whole,  the  picture  is  j^erhaps  the  most 
perfect  example  which  human  art  has  produced  of  the  utmost 
possible  force  and  sharpness  of  shadow  united  with  richness  of 
local  color.  In  all  the  other  works  of  Tintoret,  and  much 
more  of  other  colorists,  either  the  light  and  shade  or  the  local 
color  is  predominant  ; in  the  one  case  the  picture  has  a ten- 
dency to  look  as  if  painted  by  candle-light,  in  the  other  it  be- 
comes daringly  conventional,  and  approaches  the  conditions  of 


370 


VEKETIAX  IKEEX. 


glass-painting.  This  picture  unites  color  as  rich  as  Titian’s 
with  light  and  shade  as  forcible  as  Kembrandt%;and  far  more 
decisive. 

There  are  one  or  two  other  interesting  pictures  of  the  early 
Venetian  schools  in  this  sacristy,  and  several  important  tombs 
in  the  adjoining  cloister  ; among  which  that  of  Francesco 
Dandolo,  transported  here  from  the  Church  of  the  Frari,  de- 
serves especial  attention.  See  above,  p.  74. 

SaEyatoee,  Chukch  of  St.  Base  Eenaissance,  occupying  the 
place  of  the  ancient  church,  under  the  porch  of  which  the 
Pope  Alexander  III.  is  said  to  have  passed  the  night.  M. 
Lazari  states  it  to  have  been  richly  decorated  with  mosaics  ; 
now  all  is  gone. 

In  the  interior  of  the  church  are  some  of  the  best  examples 
of  Eenaissance  sculptural  monuments  in  Venice.  (See  above. 
Chap.  II.  § Lxxx.)  It  is  said  to  possess  an  important  pala  of 
silver,  of  the  thirteenth  century,  one  of  the  objects  in  Venice 
which  I much  regret  having  forgotten  to  examine  ; besides 
two  Titians,  a Bonifazio,  and  a John  Bellini.  The  latter 

The  Supper  at  Emmaus”)  must,  I think,  have  been  entirely 
repainted  : it  is  not  only  unworthy  of  the  master,  but  unlike 
him  ; as  far,  at  least,  as  I could  see  from  below,  for  it  is  hung 
high. 

Sanudo  Palazzo.  At  the  Miracoli.  A noble  Gothic  palace  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  with  Byzantine  fragments  and  cor- 
nices built  into  its  walls,  especially  round  the  interior  court,  in 
which  the  staircase  is  very  noble.  Its  door,  opening  on  the 
quay,  is  the  only  one  in  Venice  entirely  uninjured  ; retaining 
its  wooden  valve  richly  sculptured,  its  wicket  for  examination 
of  the  stranger  demanding  admittance,  and  its  quaint  knocker 
in  the  form  of  a fish. 

ScALzi,  Church  of  the.  It  possesses  a fine  John  Bellini,  and 
is  renowned  through  Venice  for  its  precious  marbles.  I omitted 
to  notice  above,  in  speaking  of  the  buildings  of  the  Grotesque 
Eenaissance,  that  many  of  them  are  remarkable  for  a kind  of 
dishonesty,  even  in  the  use  of  true  marbles,  resulting  not  from 
motives  of  economy,  but  from  mere  love  of  juggling  and  false- 
hood for  their  own  sake.  I hardly  know  which  condition  of 
mind  is  meanest,  that  which  has  pride  in  plaster  made  to  look 


SALVATORE— SILVESTliO. 


b7i 

like  marble,  or  that  which  takes  delight  in  marble  made  to 
look  like  silk.  Several  of  the  later  churches  in  Venice,  more 
especially  those  of  the  Jesuiti,  of  San  Clemente,  and  this  of 
the  Scalzi,  rest  their  chief  claims  to  admiration  on  their  hav- 
ing curtains  and  cushions  cut  out  of  rock.  The  most  ridicu- 
lous example  is  in  San  Clemente,  and  the  most  curious  and 
costly  are  in  the  Scalzi ; which  latter  church  is  a perfect  type 
of  the  vulgar  abuse  of  marble  in  every  possible  way,  by  men 
who  had  no  eye  for  color,  and  no  understanding  of  any  merit 
in  a work  of  art  but  that  which  arises  from  costliness  of  ma- 
terial, and  such  powers  of  imitation  as  are  devoted  in  England 
to  the  manufacture  of  peaches  and  eggs  out  of  Derbyshire 
spar. 

Sebastian^,  Church  of  St.  The  tomb,  and  of  old  the  monu- 
ment, of  Paul  Veronese.  It  is  full  of  his  noblest  pictures,  or 
of  what  once  were  such  ; but  they  seemed  to  me  for  the  most 
part  destroyed  by  repainting.  I had  not  time  to  examine  them 
justly,  but  I would  especially  direct  the  traveller’s  attention  to 
the  small  Madonna  over  the  second  altar  on  the  right  of  the 
nave,  still  a perfect  and  priceless’  treasure. 

Seryi,  Church  of  the.  Only  two  of  its  gates  and  some  ruined 
walls  are  left,  in  one  of  the  foulest  districts  of  the  city.  It  was 
one  of  the  most  interesting  monuments  of  the  early  fourteenth 
century  Gothic  ; and  there  is  much  beauty  in  the  fragments 
yet  remaining.  How  long  they  may  stand  I know  not,  the 
whole  building  having  been  offered  me  for  sale,  ground  and 
all,  or  stone  by  stone,  as  I chose,  by  its  present  proprietor, 
when  I was  last  in  Venice.  More  real  good  might  at  present 
be  effected  by  any  wealthy  person  who  would  devote  his  re- 
sources to  the  preservation  of  such  monuments  wherever 
they  exist,  by  freehold  purchase  of  the  entire  ruin,  and  after- 
wards by  taking  proper  charge  of  it,  and  forming  a garden 
round  it,  than  by  any  other  mode  of  protecting  or  encouraging 
art.  There  is  no  school,  no  lecturer,  like  a ruin  of  the  early 
ages. 

Severo,  Fo^q^DAMEOTA  Sa^^-,  palace  at,  II.  264. 

SiLVESTRO,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance  in  itself,  but  it 
contains  two  very  interesting  pictures:  the  first,  a *^St. 
Thomas  of  Canterbury  with  the  Baptist  and  St.  Francis,”  by 


372 


VEKKTIAK 


Girolamo  Santa  Croce,  a superb  example  of  the  Venetian  reli- 
gious school;  the  second  by  Tintoi-et,  namely: 

The  Baptism  of  Christ,  (Over  the  first  altar  on  the  right 
of  the  nave.)  An  upright  picture,  some  ten  feet  wide  by 
fifteen  high;  the  top  of  it  is  arched,  representing  the  Father 
supported  by  angels.  It  requires  little  knowledge  of  Tintoret 
to  see  that  these  figures  are  not  by  his  hand.  By  returning 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  nave,  the  join  in  the  canvas  may  be 
plainly  seen,  the  upper  part  of  the  picture  having  been  entirely 
added  on:  whether  it  had  this  upper  part  before  it  was  re- 
painted, or  whether  originally  square,  cannot  now  be  told,  but 
I believe  it  had  an  upper  part  which  has  been  destroyed.  I 
am  not  sure  if  even  the  dove  and  the  two  angels  which  are  at 
the  top  of  the  older  j)art  of  the  picture  are  quite  genuine. 
The  rest  of  it  is  magnificent,  though  both  the  figures  of  the 
Saviour  and  the  Baptist  show  some  concession  on  the  part  of 
the  painter  to  the  imperative  requirement  of  his  age,  that 
nothing  should  be  done  except  in  an  attitude;  neither  are  there 
any  of  his  usual  fantastic  imaginations.  There  is  simply  the 
Christ  in  the  water  and  the  St.  John  on  the  shore,  without 
attendants,  disciples,  or  witnesses  of  any  kind;  but  the  power 
of  the  light  and  shade,  and  the  splendor  of  the  landscape, 
which  on  the  whole  is  well  preserved,  render  it  a most  interest- 
ing example.  The  Jordan  is  represented  as  a mountain  brook, 
receiving  a tributary  stream  in  a cascade  from  the  rocks,  in 
which  St.  John  stands:  there  is  a rounded  stone  in  the  centre 
of  the  current;  and  the  parting  of  the  water  at  this,  as  well  as 
its  rippling  among  the  roots  of  some  dark  trees  on  the  left,  are 
among  the  most  accurate  remembrances  of  nature  to  be  found 
in  any  of  the  works  of  the  great  masters.  I hardly  know 
whether  most  to  wonder  at  the  power  of  the  man  who  thus 
broke  through  the  neglect  of  nature  which  was  universal  at 
his  time;  or  at  the  evidences,  visible  throughout  the  whole  of 
the  conception,  that  he  was  still  content  to  paint  from  slight 
memories  of  what  he  had  seen  in  hill  countries,  instead  of  fol- 
lowing out  to  its  fuT  depth  the  fountain  which  he  had  opened. 
There  is  not  a stream  among  the  hills  of  Priuli  which  in  any 
quarter  of  a mile  of  its  course  would  not  have  suggested  to  him 
finer  forms  of  cascade  than  those  which  he  has  idly  painted  at 
Venice. 


SILVKBTRO— TOMA. 


SiMEOKE,  PuoFETA,  Churcii  OF  St.  Very  important,  tliough 
small,  possessing  the  precious  statue  of  St.  Simeon,  above 
noticed,  II.  309.  The  rare  early  Gothic  capitals  of  the  nave 
are  only  interesting  to  the  architect;  but  in  the  little  passage 
by  the  side  of  the  church,  leading  out  of  the  Campo,  there  is 
a curious  Gothic  monument  built  into  the  wall,  very  beautiful 
in  the  placing  of  the  angels  in  the  spandrils,  and  rich  in  the 
vine-leaf  moulding  above. 

SiMEOKE,  Piccolo,  Church  of  St.  One  of  the  ugliest  churches 
in  Venice  or  elsewhere.  Its  black  dome,  like  an  unusual 
species  of  gasometer,  is  the  admiration  of  modern  Italian 
architects. 

SospiRi,  PoKTE  he’.  The  well  known  Bridge  of  Sighs,’^  a 
work  of  no  merit,  and  of  a late  period  (see  Vol.  II.  p.  304), 
OAving  the  interest  it  possesses  chiefly  to  its  pretty  name,  and 
to  the  ignorant  sentimentalism  of  Byron. 

Spirito  Sakto,  Church  of  the.  Of  no  importance. 

Stefano,  Church  of  St.  An  interesting  building  of  central 
Gothic,  the  best  ecclesiastical  example  of  it  in  Venice.  The 
west  entrance  is  much  later  than  any  of  the  rest,  and  is  of  the 
richest  Eenaissance  Gothic,  a little  anterior  to  the  Porta  della 
Carta,  and  first-rate  of  its  kind.  The  manner  of  the  intro- 
duction of  the  figure  of  the  angel  at  the  top  of  the  arch  is  full 
of  beauty.  Note  the  extravagant  crockets  and  cus^i  finials  as 
signs  of  decline. 

Stefano,  Church  of  St.,  at  Murano  (pugnacity  of  its  abbot), 
II.  33.  The  church  no  longer  exists. 

Strope,  Campiello  della,  house  in,  II.  266. 

T 

Taka,  windows  at  the,  II.  260.  ♦ 

Tiepolo,  Palazzo,  on  the  Grand  Canal.  Of  no  importance. 

Tolektiki,  Church  of  the.  One  of  the  basest  and  coldest 
Avorks  of  the  late  Eenaissance.  It  is  said  to  contain  two  Boni- 
fazios. 

Toaia,  Church  of  St.  Of  no  importance. 

Toaia,  Pokte  Sak.  There  is  an  interesting  ancient  doorway 
opening  on  the  canal  close  to  this  bridge,  probably  of  the 
twelfth  century,  and  a good  early  Gothic  door,  opening  upon 
the  bridge  itself. 


B74 


VEKETIAK  IKDEX, 


ToRCELiO^  general  aspect  of^  II.  12;  Santa  Fosca  at,  I.  117,  IL 
13;  duomo,  II.  14;  mosaics  of,  II.  196;  measures  of,  II.  378; 
date  of,  II.  380. 

Trevisax,  Palazzo,  I.  369,  III.  212. 

Trox,  Palazzo.  Of  no  importance.  . * 

Trovaso,  Church  of  St.  Itself  of  no  importance,  but  com 
taining  two  pictures  by  Tintoret,  namely: 

1.  The  Teni2:)tatio7i  of  St,  Anthonf  (Altar  piece  in  the 
chapel  on  the  left  of  the  choir.)  A small  and  very  carefully 
finished  picture,  but  marvellously  temperate  and  quiet  in 
treatment,  especially  considering  the  subject,  which  one  would 
have  imagined  likely  to  inspire,  the  painter  with  one  of  his 
most  fantastic  visions.  As  if  on  purpose  to  disappoint  us,  both 
the  effect,  and  the  conception  of  the  figures,  are  perfectly 
quiet,  and  appear  the  result  much  more  of  careful  study  than 
of  vigorous  imagination.  The  effect  is  one  of  plain  daylight; 
there  are  a few  clouds  drifting  in  the  distance,  but  with  no 
wildness  in  them,  nor  is  there  any  energy  or  heat  in  the  flames 
which  mantle  about  the  waist  of  one  of  the  figures.  But  for 
the  noble  workmanship,  we  might  almost  fancy  it  the  produc- 
tion of  a modern  academy;  yet  as  we  begin  to  read  the  picture, 
the  painter’s  mind  becomes  felt.  St.  Anthony  is  surrounded 
by  four  figures,  one  of  which  only  has  the  form  of  a demon, 
and  he  is  in  the  background,  engaged  in  no  more  terrific  act 
of  violence  toward  St.  Anthony,  than  endeavoring  to  pull  off 
his  mantle;  he  has,  however,  a scourge  over  his  shoulder,  but 
this  is  probably  intended  for  St.  Anthony’s  weapon  of  self- 
discipline,  which  the  fiend,  with  a very  Protestant  turn  of 
mind,  is  carrying  off*.  A broken  staff,  with  a bell  hanging  to 
it,  at  the  saint’s  feet,  also  expresses  his  interrupted  devotion. 
The  three  other  figures  beside  him  are  bent  on  more  cunning 
mischief:  the  woman  on  the  left  is  one  of  Tintoret’s  best  por- 
traits of  a young  and  bright-eyed  Venetian  beauty.  It  is 
curious  that  he  has  given  so  attractive  a countenance  to  a type 
apparently  of  the  temptation  to  violate  the  power  of  poverty, 
for  this  woman  places  one  hand  in  a vase  full  of  coins,  and 
shakes  golden  chains  with  the  other.  On  the  opposite  side  of 
the  saint,  another  woman,  admirably  painted,  but  of  a far  less 
attractive  countenance,  is  a type  of  the  lusts  of  the  fleshy  yet 


TOBOELLO — TROVASO. 


375 


there  is  nothing  gross  or  immodest  in  her  dress  or  gesture. 
She  appears  to  have  been  baffled,  and  for  the  present  to  have 
given  up  addressing  the  saint:  she  lays  one  hand  upon  her 
breast,  and  might  be  taken  for  a very  respectable  person,  but 
that  there  are  flames  playing  about  her  loins.  A recumbent 
figure  on  the  ground  is  of  less  intelligible  character,  but  may 
perhaps  be  meant  for  Indolence;  at  all  events,  he  has  torn  the 
saint's  book  to  pieces.  I forgot  to  note,  that  under  the  figure 
representing  Avarice,  there  is  a creature  like  a pig;  whether 
actual  pig  or  not  is  unascertainable,  for  the  church  is  dark, 
the  little  light  that  comes  on  the  picture  falls  on  it  the  wrong 
way,  and  one  third  of  the  lower  part  of  it  is  hidden  by  a white 
case,  containing  a modern  daub,  lately  pointed  by  way  of  an 
altar  piece;  the  meaning,  as  well  as  the  merit,  of  the  grand 
old  picture  being  now  far  beyond  the  comprehension  both  of 
priests  and  people. 

2.  The  Last  Supper,  (On  the  left-hand  side  of  the  Chapel 
of  the  Sacrament.)  A picture  which  has  been  through  the 
hands  of  the  Academy,  and  is  therefore  now  hardly  worth 
notice.  Its  concejotion  seems  always  to  have  been  vulgar,  and 
far  below  Tintoret’s  usual  standard;  there  is  singular  baseness 
in  the  circumstance,  that  one  of  the  near  Apostles,  while  all 
the  others  are,  as  usual,  intent  upon  Christ’s  words,  One  of 
you  shall  betray  me,”  is  going  to  help  himself  to  wine  out  of 
a bottle  which  stands  behind  him.  In  so  doing  he  stoops  to- 
wards the  table,  the  flask  being  on  the  floor.  If  intended  for 
the  action  of  Judas  at  this  moment,  there  is  the  painter’s 
usual  originality  in  the  thought;  but  it  seems  to  me  rather 
done  to  obtain  variation  of  posture,  in  bringing  the  red  dress 
into  strong  contrast  with  the  tablecloth.  The  color  has  once 
been  fine,  and  there  are  fragments  of  good  painting  still  left; 
but  the  light  does  not  permit  these  to  be  seen,  and  there  is  too 
much  perfect  work  of  the  master’s  in  Venice,  to  permit  us  to 
spend  time  on  retouched  remnants.  The  picture  is  only 
worth  mentioning,  because  it  is  ignorantly  and  ridiculously 
referred  to  by  Kugler  as  characteristic  of  Tintoret. 


376 


VEXETIAI^  INDEX. 


V 

ViTALi,  Church  of  St.  Said  to  contain  a picture  by  Vittor 
Carpaccio^  over  the  high  altar:  otherwise  of  no  importance. 

VoLTO  Santo,  Church  of  the.  An  interesting  but  desecrated 
ruin  of  the  fourteenth  century;  fine  in  style.  Its  roof  retains 
some  fresco  coloring,  but,  as  far  as  I recollect,  of  later  date 
than  the  architecture. 

Z 

Zaccaria,  Church  of  St.  Early  Eenaissance,  and  fine  of  its 
kind;  a Gothic  chapel  attached  to  it  is  of  great  beauty.  It 
contains  the  best  John  Bellini  in  Venice,  after  that  of  San 
G.  Grisostomo,  The  Virgin,  with  Pour  Saints;’^  and  is  said 
to  contain  another  John  Bellini  and  a Tintoret,  neither  of 
which  I have  seen. 

ZiTELLE,  Church  of  the.  Of  no  importance. 

ZoBENiGO,  Church  of  Santa  Maria,  III.  124.  It  contains 
one  valuable  Tintoret,  namely: 

Christ  with  Sta.  Justina  and  St,  Augustin,  (Over  the 
third  altar  on  the  south  side  of  the  nave. ) A picture  of  small 
size,  and  upright,  about  ten  feet  by  eight.  Christ  appears  to 
be  descending  out  of  the  clouds  between  the  two  saints,  who 
are  both  kneeling  on  the  sea  shore.  It  is  a Venetian  sea, 
breaking  on  a flat  beach,  like  the  Lido,  with  a scarlet  galley  in 
the  middle  distance,  of  which  the  chief  use  is  to  unite  the  two 
figures  by  a point  of  color.  Both  the  saints  are  respectable 
Venetians  of  the  lower  class,  in  homely  dresses  and  with 
homely  faces.  The  whole  picture  is  quietly  painted,  and 
somewhat  slightly;  free  from  all  extravagance,  and  displaying 
little  power  except  in  the  general  truth  or  harmony  of  colors 
so  easily  laid  on.  It  is  better  preserved  than  usual,  and  worth 
dwelling  upon  as  an  instance  of  the  style  of  the  master  when 
at  rest* 


r ■ 


/ 


I 


J 


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J 


J 


